


Wounded With His Wounded Heart

by HarmonyLover



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reconciliations, Romance, Smut, Tenderness, discussion of Afghanistan, discussion of Irene Adler, discussion of Victor Trevor, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover/pseuds/HarmonyLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock returns from the dead, John finds that his best friend returns his feelings, and that they both want to be more than flatmates and colleagues. In order to do that, however, they have to find ways to say all of the things they have been holding back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. All of the dialogue from "The Reichenbach Fall" likewise belongs to the writers.
> 
> Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing for Sherlock, and is unabashed character study. If you are looking for case fic, this is not going to be your cuppa - but there is post-Reichenbach angst, reunion, romance, and comfort in plenty. My good friend WickedforGood13 has been incredibly patient and kind as my beta and listened to all of my head canon ramblings. Reviews and kindness are appreciated. :)

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart**

 

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driven.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

For as from me on him his hurt did light,

So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart and I have his.

                        ~Sir Philip Sidney, Song From _Arcadia_

* * *

 

“The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn’t say it,” Ella began softly.

“Yeah.”

“Say it now,” his therapist requested.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” John said, swallowing hard as tears threatened to fall from his eyes yet again. He had lost count of the tears he had shed while he was alone, the hours he had spent awake at night, seeing Sherlock fall over and over again, but he’d be damned if he’d break down in front of other people. He could accept sympathy and appreciate it when it was expressed, but he wanted no part of anyone’s pity.  He was only here today because Mrs. Hudson had made the appointment (she’d found Ella’s number in his phone; she’d obviously learned a little too well from Sherlock) and pleaded with him to go.

But the things he hadn’t said – he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to voice them, now. The person they were meant for was dead, and even when Sherlock was alive, John hadn’t been able to find the words.

* * *

 

He tried.

When he was awake at night, sometimes he would attempt to write. Sometimes he started a blog entry, sometimes a letter to Sherlock, anything to get the thoughts out of his head. He began a million ways – with his impressions from the first time he had met Sherlock at Bart’s, with the odd and hostile conversation he’d had with Irene Adler in the power station, with his own anger. But inevitably he would end up crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it into the fireplace.  Watching each of his attempts burn to ash seemed appropriate.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Moriarty had succeeded in that, and John wondered if he had known that he was destroying two hearts instead of one. He was sure the bastard would have taken a sick, perverse pleasure from the thought.

He hadn’t succeeded in destroying Sherlock, though, not entirely. With the recovery of Moriarty’s body and his phone, which seemed to be the only device he consistently used to run his empire of crime, Lestrade and the Yard had begun to dismantle his network, piece by slow piece. (Had Moriarty appreciated the irony that he was like Jennifer Wilson in any way?) Sherlock’s name had been cleared. The _Times_ had run a long, apologetic expose detailing Moriarty’s crimes, his farce of a trial, and the accomplishments of the consulting detective who had made the ultimate sacrifice in order to bring him to justice.

There were two things that didn’t make sense. The first was that Moriarty had apparently killed himself – a handgun was found with him, containing only his prints, and it was beyond John to figure out why. Had he killed himself before or after Sherlock had jumped? If it had been before, why had Sherlock still gone through with his suicide? John could only hope that somewhere in all of the information the Yard was uncovering on Moriarty, there would be answers.

The second strange thing was that Sherlock’s phone, the one he had last spoken on and that John had distinctly seen him throw behind him, was not found on the rooftop. Greg wondered whether there had in fact been someone with Moriarty and Sherlock, someone else who was there to ensure that Sherlock jumped or otherwise ended up dead, or someone who was meant to carry on Moriarty’s work in the event of his death and had retrieved the phone before the police got to the crime scene.

Greg also wondered whether John could have been mistaken about where Sherlock had thrown the phone. John knew he wondered, wondered whether John’s perceptions had been distorted by fear and grief, but the DI never said anything to him, just as John never enquired about the progress the Yard was making with pulling apart Moriarty’s web. Greg sent him occasional brief updates without being asked – another flat raided, another associate charged and jailed, another hard drive found. It was meager comfort, a sharp splinter of satisfaction in otherwise cheerless days.

John also never asked how much Mycroft involved himself in the work Greg was doing, even though he was sure the elder Holmes was devoting every moment of his days to the same end, with all of the frightening, ruthless intensity of which he was capable.

John didn’t want to know. He wasn’t sure he would be able to tolerate Mycroft’s presence ever again. He was certain the man must still be keeping tabs on him, but John wanted nothing to do with him.

He’d come perilously close to punching Mycroft at the funeral.

He thought Sherlock would have been amused if he had.

If he wasn’t trying to write on the nights he couldn’t sleep, or woke from nightmares of blood on the ground and blank, lifeless blue-grey eyes, he found himself simply wandering around the flat. He hadn’t moved many things – hadn’t been able to – and so he would wander, running his fingers over the skull on the mantelpiece, over the arms and back of Sherlock’s chair, over the microscope and Erlenmeyer flasks in the kitchen. More often than not, he would end up on the leather couch, cradling Sherlock’s beloved Stradivarius as though it were the man himself.

After three weeks of insomnia and numbness and grief, he feared for his own sanity.

He gathered up the absolute basics of what he needed and left, finding a room several miles away that was much like the one he’d had when he first returned to London.

It allowed him to exist, and that was all he needed now. All he expected.

He took precisely three items that had been Sherlock’s: the skull, the violin, and Sherlock’s blue dressing gown.

Neither Mycroft nor Mrs. Hudson said a word.

* * *

 

Shortly after he had been to see Ella, he and Mrs. Hudson made a visit by themselves to the cemetery.

He knew Mrs. Hudson was grieving, too – Sherlock had been like a son to her, which was part of why she was so angry now – but he was grateful when she left him alone. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could have kept his composure in front of her, not with the black granite slab standing ruthlessly in front of him.

It came over him all at once, in one overwhelming, painful wave, that this would be the closest he could ever be to Sherlock from now on – and frankly, he couldn’t bear it. So he tried again. Tried to find some of the words that had been eluding him for the past few weeks – for the past few months, really.

“Um, you – you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Um - there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were – the best man, and the most human – ” John struggled to find another noun, then gave it up as a bad job “– human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so – there.”

He walked carefully toward the headstone, touching his fingertips to it gently, as though Sherlock could feel the tentative caress.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much,” he choked out.  John began to walk away, but it was almost as though he could feel Sherlock’s specter hovering near him, and he turned around in desperation. Had Sherlock been standing there, John would have grabbed him by his lapels, but as it was, all he could do was look at that hateful stone as he pleaded.

“There’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me,” he gasped hoarsely. “Don’t be dead.  Would you do that – just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”

John allowed a few tears to fall as he bowed his head and put his hand over his eyes – but he would never leave this spot again if he allowed himself to completely break down, and so he straightened his posture into an erect military salute before leaving.

He didn’t look back.

Sherlock had brought him alive again, and he couldn’t allow that to go to waste – no matter how much he might want to.

* * *

 

John attempted, over the next few months, to put his life back together, to function in spite of the aching void in his chest that Sherlock had left behind. He still worked for Sarah at the surgery – and in fact, she was immensely relieved to have someone on staff as dependable and regular as John had become. That spring and summer saw a rash of illnesses and outbreaks that overwhelmed the medical offices of London, and between them, Sarah and John coped with the onslaught of patients. John fell back into his RAMC habits, eating and sleeping only when absolutely necessary and tending to one case after another until late in the evenings.

It was not lost on John that he had taken to abusing his body as badly as Sherlock had abused his, something for which John had often chastised him roundly. However, there was no one to worry about him save Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, and the long hours and continuous work kept away his psychosomatic limp and hand tremors, though those same hours did nothing to improve the condition of his shoulder.

He still went to have tea with Mrs. Hudson every so often, and she kept him updated on the progress of cleaning out the flat. She had boxed up Sherlock’s lab equipment and had someone from St. Bart’s come to collect it – since Sherlock had spent so much time in their lab and morgue, Mrs. Hudson thought it was fitting that his equipment should go there. John smothered a smile at Sherlock’s voice in his head, pointing out all the ways the idiot techs at Bart’s would undoubtedly misuse his things. John knew Mrs. Hudson meant well, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by pointing out the detective’s probable opinion of her reasoning.

Mycroft had, according to Mrs. Hudson, come by in person to remove Sherlock’s possessions shortly after the funeral. John was frankly surprised that Mycroft had taken the time to do such a thing himself, but apparently he and the ever-present Anthea had spent several hours packing Sherlock’s clothes and books, case files and laptop, and Mrs. Hudson had asked them to stay for tea. Mycroft had said that his mother wanted some of Sherlock’s things, and he wanted to add some of his brother’s unique library to his own collection.

“He looked terrible, the poor man,” Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically, on a day roughly six months after Sherlock had died, as she and John talked over tea and scones. “As thin as Sherlock used to be – except he’s not quite as tall, you know – and simply exhausted. He said he’s been doing everything he can to deal with the people who hurt Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice shook a bit, and she wiped away a tear as she took another sip of tea.

“Yes, well, he might start by looking in the mirror, then,” John said sharply, unable to contain his bitterness. “No doubt he wanted Sherlock’s case files for all of their notes; he always did want to know more than Sherlock would tell him.”

Mrs. Hudson watched him keenly for a moment, then set down her cup and saucer with a decisive click, covering one of John’s hands with her own.

“You should at least try to forgive him, John,” she said gently. “I know all of the publicity before Sherlock died was terrible, although I don’t know exactly what led Sherlock to – to do what he did, and I know you don’t either. I don’t know how much Mycroft had to do with it, even though you clearly hold him responsible in some way. I _do_ know they didn’t entirely get along. But John” – and she squeezed his fingers, making John look up at her – “he has lost his brother, probably the only person in the world who was remotely like him and could understand him. It’s not any easier for him than it is for you, even though your relationships with Sherlock were – different,” she finished, hesitating just a fraction of a second over the last word.

John smiled slightly, both to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson and at the irony of what she had (almost) said. He knew what she thought – what everyone, apparently, had thought – and the ridiculous thing was that it hadn’t been true at the time. He had scarcely begun to come to grips with his feelings for his flatmate, much less decided whether to do anything about them, before Sherlock had been torn from him. Even had he been brave enough to do something – say something – there were no guarantees that Sherlock would have reciprocated. Sherlock had a complicated relationship with emotions at the best of times, and he really did seem – had seemed – to be married to his work above all else, no matter how high his regard for John had been. John felt tremendously honored to know that he was – had been – Sherlock’s closest friend, and maybe, in the end, he would have decided that was enough, and never said anything at all. It _had_ been enough, come to that – Sherlock had saved him in all the ways that mattered. Even if John spent every day of his life wishing for one more conversation, one more chase, one more evening in Baker Street – and he knew he would – the eighteen months he had spent with Sherlock shone like a bright star over all the rest of his life.

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Hudson,” he finally said to his former landlady, taking another sip of his own tea. She was right, after all; Mycroft _had_ lost Sherlock and must have been devastated, though he would hide it from the entire world before admitting to it.

“Good,” she said, patting his hand before standing and going back over to the stove to put more water on.

“And you know, John, you can come back whenever you like,” she added after a moment. She turned back toward him, and John could see the tears in her eyes. “You don’t have to, of course, but I don’t have any plans to immediately rent the flat again. To be honest, I can’t imagine not having at least one of you upstairs,” she admitted, her voice trembling.

John rose from his chair and enfolded the older woman in a hug. God, he loved this woman like a mother, and it was so hard to see her hurting this way, even if he understood it more than anyone else.

“I’ll think about it, all right?” he murmured. “I need a little more time, but. . . I’ll think about it.”

“I would love to have you, if you want,” she replied, and John gave her another squeeze before letting her go.

When he got home, John showered, wrapped himself in Sherlock’s dressing gown, and collapsed in his reading chair for the rest of the evening.

There were days, still, when the grief was just too great.

* * *

 

The one-year anniversary of Sherlock’s death found John still undecided about moving back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson missed him, and in all honesty he missed her and the flat, but he still wasn’t sure he could stand to be there without Sherlock – not to mention that he couldn’t really afford it. He had put a good bit away since he had been working so much at the surgery (and since he had no social life to speak of), but he would probably need to get a flatmate eventually, if he moved back – and the idea of that still felt like betrayal. Baker Street was Sherlock’s; it was where Sherlock belonged, whether John was there or not, and replacing him with someone else was impossible.

The anniversary also found John back at the graveyard, for the first time since his visit with Mrs. Hudson directly after the funeral.

It was cold, but not unbearably so, and it wasn’t raining. John had come prepared, wearing a jumper and a heavy coat and carrying a blanket to sit on. He spread the blanket out in front of Sherlock’s headstone, and slowly eased himself down, placing a bouquet of deep purple calla lilies directly underneath Sherlock’s name.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said quietly.

John simply sat for a few minutes, letting the peacefulness of the place sink in. He could appreciate the prettiness of the cemetery in a way he’d been incapable of doing before.

“You know, I have no idea if you like flowers,” John said finally, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Much less if you care about where your headstone is. I doubt it, given how many times you’ve said your body is just ‘transport’ – but it’s nice here. And the flowers remind me of you. They’re – _vivid_ , like you. You always appreciate beauty when you actually take the time to notice it.”

John knew he was still talking in the present tense, as if his friend was actually sitting across from him, but he didn’t care. It felt right, in a way that speaking in the past tense never did – and given how often he heard Sherlock’s voice in his head, he wasn’t sure he would ever feel as though the detective was truly gone.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been back,” he went on, his voice becoming quieter. “It’s been hard – in some ways it doesn’t feel like it could possibly have been a year ago, but in other ways it feels like ten. I miss you. I miss all of your insanity – running around London after you, coming home to find you shooting holes into the wall, hearing you play at three in the morning. I don’t miss the body parts in the fridge,” John said with a tiny smile, “but I miss everything else.”

John stayed for a few more minutes, not saying anything more, and when he rose to leave, he once again brushed his fingertips over the gravestone, the feeling lingering in his nerve endings as he walked out.

He was simultaneously completely unsurprised and utterly irritated to see a black car waiting for him. Mentally throwing up his hands, he stalked over to the car and climbed in the back, sending a glare at Anthea.

“I’m not at all happy about this, for the record,” he growled at her.

“Yes, I rather think he’s expecting that,” Anthea said dryly, unfazed as ever as she tapped her Blackberry.

John crossed his arms and simply sat back to wait, recognizing the route to the Diogenes Club after a few turns. He tried to fathom what Mycroft could possibly want. Mycroft Holmes was not the type to indulge in sentimentality – in fact, John was fairly certain that Mycroft’s response to the anniversary would simply be to work harder than ever – so John had no idea why he was being summoned. Still, he would try and be civil. It was the least he could do, on this day when his own heartache was so close to the surface.

Contrary to his usual custom, Mycroft was waiting outside the Diogenes when the car pulled up, standing straight and immaculately dressed at the bottom of the stairs. When John got out of the car, Mycroft wore an expression which, in another man, might have been wariness, but to John’s battle-trained eyes, simply looked like someone braced for a reaction – or a storm.

“Mycroft,” he said neutrally. He kept his expression carefully blank, but he knew his eyes were cold and Mycroft could read his displeasure.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said with a nod. He could clearly tell that John was in no mood for pleasantries, and so he inclined his head and the two men began to ascend the stairs together.

Mrs. Hudson was right, John noted – Mycroft was shockingly thin, especially for a man who, a year ago, had a slight paunch and extra weight in his jowls and neck. Though he was as meticulously groomed as ever, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was of a color and texture that raised all of the alarm bells in the medical side of John’s brain. Before he could think about it too much, John reached out a hand and put it on Mycroft’s forearm.

“Mycroft, I’m not pleased to be here and I won’t pretend I am, but I have to tell you, you look terrible,” John said in concern. “You’ve lost at least two stone, maybe three. I can’t imagine the last time you had a full night’s sleep, and you’re showing signs of malnutrition and dehydration. If it were anyone else, I’d be putting them on two IV drips and giving them sleeping medication about now.”

Mycroft gave him a smile that, to John’s surprise, seemed genuinely amused and appreciative, if a bit dry. “Ever the doctor,” he said with a small shake of his head. “I promise you that I will be much better able to take care of myself after today. It has been – a very long year,” Mycroft admitted. “But I will endeavor to bring myself back to health now, Dr. Watson. If it will reassure you, you can leave instructions with Anthea.”

John stopped on the top stair in amazement, and Mycroft turned to look at him. “I just might do that,” John said slowly, wondering if he had stepped into an alternate universe. Since when had Mycroft Holmes been willing to take medical advice from him?

“I’m sure she would appreciate it. She does worry about me,” Mycroft answered, again with that surprisingly genuine smile, and John shook his head, shelving his confusion for later contemplation.

“Mycroft, are you going to tell me why I’m here?” John asked, trying to return his focus back to the original problem. “I don’t want to fight with you, today of all days, but I really would prefer to be left alone. Surely you can understand that.”

“I can. This shouldn’t take long,” Mycroft said, and he led the way into the club, turning a corner and leading them through the silent reading rooms until they reached the sitting room where John had met with him on several other occasions. Mycroft reached out to turn the doorknob, but then hesitated, turning back to face John with an expression that was a truly alarming mixture of fatigue, guilt, and sadness.

“John,” he said tiredly, “this may turn out to be yet another transgression for which you cannot forgive me, but I hope, in the end, you will see that it was for the best.”

John opened his mouth to question the other man, but before he could utter a word, Mycroft opened the door and went in, leaving John no other option but to follow.

As he stepped into the room, John’s attention was immediately drawn to a tall figure standing in front of the windows. His heart was in his throat almost before he registered what his eyes were seeing – _light gray suit, dark brown curly hair, slender hands, a profile like Sherlock’s, exactly like Sherlock’s_ – and he could only stare, unaware of Mycroft slipping out again behind him.

The figure turned completely toward him, and a roaring began in John’s ears. He could see differences, small differences, with a clarity that was almost overwhelming – _a tiny scar on Sherlock’s right temple, another peeking out from under his shirt collar, over his collarbone, small lines at the corners of his eyes that were new_ – but the face was otherwise Sherlock’s. John slowly shook his head, his combat reflexes taking over as his hands steadied and his voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“What is this? Who are you?” he demanded.

And then the apparition spoke.

“It is I, truly, John,” the figure said. “You are not hallucinating, I assure you.”

And it was his voice, _his_ , the deep, rich baritone that John still heard in his mind and in his dreams, but it was wrong, still wrong, because Sherlock had never sounded so pained or apprehensive or hesitant or _gentle_.

John shook his head again in denial. “I don’t know what kind of sick game this is,” he ground out, speaking between clenched jaws and gritted teeth, “and so help me, when I find out what Mycroft has to do with this there will be hell to pay – but you are not Sherlock Holmes. You are not.”

The man hesitated before taking a step forward, but stepped back again as John flinched, the reflex somewhere between striking a blow and shrinking away from an unwelcome touch.

“You are _not_!” the doctor roared, staring down the look alike with a ferocity that was truly frightening as his hands balled into fists. “I watched him fall, I watched my best friend fall to his death and watched his head bleed out over the pavement, so don’t you _dare_ try to tell me –”

And all at once John wasn’t in the Diogenes Club at all, but staring up at Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, on the edge of the roof at Bart’s, feeling the nausea and terror in his stomach as his brain finally started to understand what Sherlock meant to do, hearing the painful breaks in the detective’s voice through the phone, his words through what John was sure were tears.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do this for me?_

There was a sickening jolt in his stomach as he watched Sherlock toss the phone away and dive off of the ledge, his eyes pinned to his friend’s falling form for an unreal handful of seconds that felt like hours, before the horrible thump and crack hit his ears. He was running, running toward the body on the ground but someone plowed into him, throwing him to the ground on his bad shoulder, making him hit his head and dazing him, making it a struggle to stay conscious and fight his way back to his feet, work his way over to the crowd on the sidewalk, only to fall to his knees again as someone – him? – turned Sherlock over and he saw the staring eyes, the blood pooling under Sherlock’s curls and running in rivulets through the pavement seams – and someone was trying to talk to him, calm him down, was saying his name even though he hadn’t told them his name –

“John,” the voice said urgently. “John. Breathe.”

John gasped, and he came back to himself as suddenly as though someone had covered him in a bucket of ice water. He was shaking and sweating, and the man who looked so eerily like Sherlock and yet didn’t was gripping his upper arms and had backed him against the wall in order to keep him from falling. The man was still speaking to him in Sherlock’s voice.

“Deep breaths, John. Slowly,” the voice instructed, and John, feeling his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen and his limbs still trembling with adrenaline and shock, tried to comply with the command, consciously fighting back the panic and grief of the flashback, fighting back the anger and confusion created by the man standing in front of him. He sucked in a long breath and released it, then pressed his lips shut and inhaled through his nose the second time, doing the same for the third – and reeling again as his olfactory sensors were overwhelmed by the scent of Sherlock, warm and spicy and utterly unmistakable.

John closed his eyes, still breathing deeply, and when he finally opened them again he saw nothing but blue-grey, blue-grey eyes that were wide and intent and worried. Finally feeling as though he might not be dreaming, John raised a shaking hand to the face in front of him, tentatively cradling one angular cheekbone as his fingers met solid flesh.

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

Sherlock simply nodded, and John withdrew his hand abruptly as he realized what he was doing. Sherlock’s fingers relaxed on his biceps, but didn’t let go, and John found that he was grateful for the contact, if only to reinforce the reality of what he was seeing.

“I – I don’t understand. _How_?” John asked incredulously.

“A carefully orchestrated series of illusions, John – although the fall itself was real enough,” Sherlock admitted grimly, a shudder going through his tall frame at the memory. “Braces, padding, a bulletproof vest, real blood in my blood type that Molly took from the hospital supply, a very rare drug called morticyazine to produce the effects of cardiac arrest. A suit jacket and Belstaff coat can cover a great deal. I was hoping not to have to do it, of course, but I had planned for the possibility. Molly filled out the paperwork to make my death look real and cleaned up the actual wounds I sustained.”

“Molly,” John repeated numbly. His shock and anger at what had seemed like a cruel joke was nothing to the rage that was beginning to course through him. “Molly knew you were alive.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected decisively. “She knew I was alive when I left the hospital. She did not know where I was going or whether I would live after that, which was exactly how I needed it to be. And in fact, it made little difference anyway, since I was not sure of either of those things myself.”

“You weren’t sure…” John started to repeat what Sherlock had said, his tone still disbelieving, before he checked himself almost automatically; he knew the detective hated repetition. “And Mycroft?” he demanded.

“Mycroft knew nothing until about two months after my ‘death,’ when I started leaving dead bodies for his agents and the Yard to find,” Sherlock said bluntly. “It wasn’t until the third or fourth one, probably two months or so later, that I took the time to get in touch with him, as I was sure that by then he would have figured out what was happening. He had, of course,” Sherlock added almost absently, his eyes focused on something in his mind rather than on John.

“Dead bodies – Sherlock, _whose_ dead bodies?” John said, his voice cracking almost hysterically as he tried to process all of the new information and at the same time not lose his temper completely.

Sherlock let him go abruptly, then, and John immediately felt cold without the warmth of his hands. The consulting detective’s face arranged itself into the well-remembered expression of impatience and exasperation, and suddenly the Sherlock John knew was back with a vengeance.

“Oh, don’t be obtuse, John,” he snapped in vexation. “The bodies of Moriarty’s henchmen, the major players in his organization. Why else would I have planned for my own death, faked it as realistically as possible when there was no other option, and spent a year away from you and London, running from one country to another?”

The silence that followed Sherlock’s outburst was deafening, and John didn’t even realize he had swung until his fist connected with Sherlock’s face, sending Sherlock sprawling to the floor.

“You sodding _git_. You absolute _wanker_ ,” John said, standing over Sherlock and breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his fury. “You did this for your bloody _game_ with that psychopath? You risked your life, you faked your death, you let me _grieve_ for you and _mourn_ you, all so you could go running off and best him?” John’s voice rose steadily, shaking with betrayal, and he was quite sure he had never been this angry and hurt in his life. He had never thought Sherlock capable of being so duplicitous and disloyal, would never have believed that Sherlock could treat him with such callousness.

Sherlock looked up at him from the floor, and this time his eyes were wide not with concern, but with the realization of his mistake and some other, undecipherable emotion that John couldn’t identify.  Then, to John’s complete and utter befuddlement, Sherlock began to laugh. It would have made him angry all over again, but there was something slightly hysterical in the deep chuckles that unsettled John and set his teeth on edge. Something was wrong here.

When Sherlock’s laughter ended with a muffled groan, and the detective seemed to fold in on himself in his position on the floor, another kind of awareness flooded John’s already prickling senses. He dropped to his knees next to Sherlock and reached out a tentative hand.

“Sherlock?” he said hesitantly. “What is it? Where are you hurt?” A frisson of alarm went through John as he realized that he might have exacerbated other injuries when Sherlock fell to the floor from his punch – it would explain, in fact, why Sherlock had not stayed on his feet, if he had less control of his body than he was used to.

“Cracked ribs,” Sherlock gasped, his breathing shallow. “I’ll be all right, just – give me a moment. Forgot how much it – hurts to laugh.”

John cursed mentally. No wonder he had fallen – twisting his torso with the punch would have been agonizing on cracked ribs. It also shed some light on why Sherlock had not supported John’s weight during his flashback and panic attack – Sherlock had used the wall for support, and used the strength of his arms to keep John upright without putting too much strain on his ribcage.

“Let me see,” he ordered, his hands already reaching for Sherlock’s suit jacket and shirt buttons.

Sherlock sat up slowly, one arm curled around his midsection, and shook his head in a weak protest. “Mycroft’s physician has already seen to it, John, there is really no need –”

“Sherlock,” John said again, his tone brooking no argument. “Let. Me. See.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and cautiously shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unbuttoned his dress shirt. John had been right about the new scar, he saw, a slender white slice over Sherlock’s collarbone, but he hissed as he saw the bloom of purple, blue, and yellow around Sherlock’s ribcage. The bruises were vicious, likely made by both fists and boots, and combined with the ribs had to pain the detective immensely. John let his fingers ghost over a few of the worst ones.

“Have you been keeping your lungs clear? Taking deep breaths? What pain meds are you on?” he asked, his mind whirring as the medical questions came automatically.

“Yes, I have, and Oxycontin, briefly, followed by high doses of ibuprofen,” Sherlock replied, his tone a bit terse but clearly acknowledging John’s need for information.

John nodded, keeping his eyes flickering over Sherlock as he absorbed that. Of course giving Sherlock Oxycontin for any length of time wasn’t a good idea, given his drug history – ten days was usually the maximum prescription allowed even for someone with no history and no addictive tendencies. As long as he had been preventing any mucous from building up in his lungs, that was the most important thing.

He caught sight of another bandage, through the white material of Sherlock’s shirt, and gently touched his forearm. “And this?”

“A knife,” Sherlock said succinctly. “Courtesy of one Sebastian Moran, the last person I … dispatched. Moriarty’s second in command. It should be fine. Minimal scarring, with any luck.”

There was a pause, during which they were both looking at each other, John doing more injury assessment and Sherlock taking in John’s expression, his eyes, some of the emotions written so clearly on his face. John was aware of that direct gaze even as his brain was cataloguing the new scars that he could see, calculating the amount of time it should take Sherlock’s ribs to heal, and thinking about alternatives for the ibuprofen; Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stay on that forever, but he would need something to ward off the residual pain for several weeks yet. He was also shockingly thin, easily as thin as Mycroft, which on his taller frame made him look almost emaciated. He had clearly slept and been hydrated, probably by force if John knew Mycroft at all, which was the only reason his coloring was better than his brother’s. He would have to eat consistently for some time, though, even to attain his normally slender and muscled physique.

Eventually, he looked back at Sherlock and nodded, a silent note that he was done with his examination, and Sherlock rebuttoned his shirt before slowly easing back into his jacket. John offered a hand to help him stand, and it was only then, when they were both standing, that Sherlock broke the silence that had enfolded them.

“I am sorry, John,” he said quietly, and John looked up at him, astonished. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had verbally apologized to him. Sherlock saw his look and his mouth quirked up at the corner, amused and rueful. “There is a great deal you don’t know, and I am explaining it all very badly. I have been so absorbed in this, so determined to be done with this bloody business and come home, that I forgot for a moment just how much of a leap I am asking you to make.”

It was in that instant that John realized that neither of them had let go of the other’s hand, and his fingers tightened around Sherlock’s involuntarily, even as his breathing quickened just a fraction. He had been so far in doctor mode before that he hadn’t thought about the fact that he was seeing Sherlock’s body – but now just the one point of contact was threatening to make his head swim.

“I’m sorry I punched you; I clearly overreacted. Just don’t disappear on me again, please,” John said, giving Sherlock a small smile of his own. “Having you return from the dead is about all the shock I can take today, I think.”

“Understandably,” Sherlock said, again with the warm half-smile that John knew was completely genuine. “Come here.”

Sherlock tugged John over to the sofa and they both sat, still keeping their hands linked between them, though neither of them chose to comment on it.

“It was not about the game,” Sherlock started. “It might have been a game to Moriarty, but it was a game of the most deadly kind, and by the time I was up on that rooftop, I had long since ceased to see it as such, and saw it instead as the web of a man who simply had to be stopped. It might interest you to know that our dear friend Jim shot himself in the head before I jumped.”

John blanched. He had wanted to know what happened, but it hurt more than he expected to hear that Moriarty had already been dead, and yet Sherlock had jumped anyway, had faked his own death in front of John’s eyes when the criminal they had been seeking was no longer a threat. “I knew he had killed himself – the forensics proved that – but then _why_ did you still jump? Why would you still go through with it when he was already dead? When all I could do was _stand there_ and watch you die?”

“Because in death he beat me, too, at least in that moment,” Sherlock said tightly, and John realized belatedly that Sherlock’s fingers were trembling. It was not easy for him to relive this, to talk about this – there was much more here than John had initially believed. “If I had anticipated that, if I had known he would be willing to go that far, I might have been able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. If I had, this whole charade would not have been necessary.”

Sherlock gently disentangled his fingers from John’s, and when he raised both hands to cup John’s face, John could only stare back at him. Feeling that intense gaze drill into him left him dizzy, brought him back to the moment when Sherlock had been trying to get him to remember  the Black Lotus cipher, and all he had been able to feel were Sherlock’s eyes and hands – it was like that now, but he knew why Sherlock had done it. Sherlock needed him to remember, needed him to see what had really happened.

“Do you remember what he said at the pool?” Sherlock asked, his eyes intent on John’s. John swallowed; how many times had that voice, that sentence, echoed in his head and his nightmares?

“I will burn the heart out of you,” he whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

“He meant it, John. It wasn’t just about humiliating me, making me look like a fake, discrediting my skills. It wasn’t even solely about wanting me dead, though he certainly wanted that, enough to kill himself to ensure it. He wanted me gutted, left with nothing and no one.”

Sherlock paused, and John could see the anguish flicker through his eyes before he continued. “I baited you, that day at the lab – I wanted you to be angry so that you would do exactly what you did and go to Baker Street – but I was also trying to tell you, in the only way I could.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me,” John murmured. He closed his eyes as complete understanding finally washed through him. “I am _such_ an idiot.”

The pads of Sherlock’s fingers tightened on his cheekbones. “You are not. You are _not_ , John,” he said fiercely. “You _care_ – and that is not idiocy, no matter what Mycroft might think and no matter how long I tried to convince myself that it was. I owe you a thousand apologies for all of this, and one of them is for twisting your heart to my advantage. If the worst happened, I didn’t – I didn’t intend for you to see it. But when you showed up – I still tried to tell you.”

John replayed the conversation he had relived so many times, slowly going over the lines in his head, for the first time in a year not feeling the soul-wrenching agony of knowing that he would never see Sherlock again. When he reached the correct point in the conversation, he sucked in a breath, knowing he was right. “‘It’s just a magic trick.’”

Sherlock nodded, another one of those truly kind half-smiles gracing his features. “I didn’t know for certain, but – I hoped it would be. If you figured it out afterward, I wanted you to be able to hope, too.”

John’s throat closed up. Sherlock was still Sherlock, but this strange – strange _tenderness_ was new, new and brilliant and terrifying for John’s vulnerable heart. It was as though whatever hell Sherlock had been through in the last year had stripped away his reserve, made him willing to open up to John and show more of the emotions that John had always seen under the surface of his cold and abrupt demeanor. John  wondered if what he was seeing was his alone, whether Sherlock was also different around Mycroft or Molly, and some terribly selfish part of him hoped that this Sherlock was all his.

Sherlock seemed to sense that John couldn’t speak, because he took another long breath before he continued, his hands still never leaving John’s face. “There were three snipers, John. Moriarty left warnings – IOUs – one on an apple, at the flat, when he paid me a visit the day of the verdict. That one was for you. One at the Yard, for Lestrade. One at Baker Street, for Mrs. Hudson. That day at Bart’s, the snipers had all three of you in their crosshairs – and either Moriarty had to call them off, or I had to jump. That was their signal to leave. If I was dead, the three of you lived. And we went several rounds, he and I – I was so _close_ to getting him to give them whatever code he had set up,” Sherlock growled in frustration, “and he knew that I was. He put a gun in his mouth so that I wouldn’t succeed, so that the only avenue left to me was to jump. He was willing to die as long as I did, too – and he had found precisely the right way to make it happen.”

“My god,” John breathed. He could feel the color draining from his face as Sherlock explained, and by the end he just felt cold all over, his mind in turmoil as he tried to comprehend such an impossible choice. He raised his own hands and placed them lightly on Sherlock’s forearms, still needing to feel the detective’s flesh under his fingers – and needing a counterpoint to Sherlock’s hands on his own skin. “Sherlock, I never imagined –”

“Of course you didn’t – and I didn’t want you to,” Sherlock said determinedly. “No one but Moriarty could have dreamed up such insanity. That was the entire point – everyone had to believe I was dead, even you, John. As long as the world believed it, as long as the people closest to me believed it, then you were all safe. Not only that, but others were safe, too. Harry. Clara. Mrs. Hudson’s sister. Angelo. Lestrade’s children. And before you ask, John, Molly was safe from the start because Moriarty had deemed her unimportant – he had gone through with the charade of dating her, after all, and watched me dismiss her out of hand that day he was in the lab, saw me utterly ignore her. She didn’t matter, or so he thought, and therefore I could go to her when the need was greatest. I’ve never been so grateful for my own rude and antisocial tendencies,” he added wryly.

Feeling slightly more brave, now that he was starting to understand, John slid his hands up to Sherlock’s own and entwined their fingers, bringing them down so that their joined hands rested between them. Sherlock offered no objection at all, and John felt his own hope grow just a little more.

“What about Mycroft?” he said curiously. “Why didn’t he go after Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in a way that told John he was dissatisfied with this aspect of the case, if case it could be called. “Neither I nor my dear brother have truly been able to figure out the answer to that question. Moriarty knew of Mycroft’s existence; he told me so on the roof of the hospital and in any case his network was everywhere – but perhaps he thought it too risky, to try and go after the British Government? Perhaps, again, Mycroft was unimportant to Moriarty because he apparently was utterly unimportant to me? Mycroft and I have a contentious relationship at best, and you have seen our animosity firsthand. If Jim truly wanted to do as he said, take away everyone who was dear to me if I didn’t kill myself first, then naturally he would go after those who seemed to be closest to me. To the outside world, Mycroft has never been on that list. It was fortuitous - Mycroft proved himself invaluable, once he knew I was alive, making sure I had money and passports and clearance at my disposal.”

“It is also possible that Moriarty wanted to leave Mycroft alive, leave Mycroft knowing that he had been bested and had helped to destroy me,” Sherlock added thoughtfully after a moment. “That idea would have been very appealing to him.”

John could say nothing to that. It was true, for one, and for another Sherlock clearly knew what had happened between Mycroft and Moriarty. Whether or not Sherlock forgave his brother was up to him, and from what John had seen, Mycroft had certainly exhausted himself in assisting Sherlock, perhaps to atone for what he had done. John himself wasn’t sure anymore how he felt toward the elder Holmes; he would need time to figure that out. Mycroft had made a terrible, heartless mistake, and he had kept the knowledge of Sherlock being alive to himself – but since that secrecy might very well have saved all of them, John wasn’t sure he could fault the man.

“And so being alone not only protected you, in this case, but protected me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and Mycroft,” John summarized succinctly, his voice shaking. “Sherlock . . .”

He trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say or how much he _could_ say without revealing his feelings completely, but thankfully Sherlock stepped in to the conversation.

“Quite,” he nodded. “I walked away from Bart’s having no idea whether or not I would succeed in taking down the rest of Moriarty’s network, or if one of them would take me down first. Molly knew I was alive, at least temporarily, but she didn’t know if I would stay that way, and had all of this gone on long enough, she would have assumed I was dead; perhaps she has already. Mycroft didn’t know until several months after the fact. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson still don’t know. And of course, it was important that everyone I was hunting also assumed I was dead. They weren’t expecting me to come looking for them.”

“Where did you go?” John asked softly, and suddenly every bit of Sherlock’s exhaustion showed on his face.

“Everywhere,” he answered wearily. “Everywhere from Paris and St. Petersburg to Morocco and the Ivory Coast. Japan. Thailand. Brazil. Even Canada and the States. I started with the snipers and worked my way up. I wanted the immediate threats to you removed, and after that I focused on the key players, the linchpins. The minions, the hired muscle, would simply move to another organization or job if Moriarty stopped paying them, but the ones who could take over, who could keep running his empire – I wanted them dead. All of them. I wasn’t about to spare anyone who could come after you,” Sherlock finished. Just for a moment, his eyes turned hard, fierce, and John saw all of the ruthlessness and determination that had driven him to do something so desperate, to risk his life in a six-story fall and then risk it over and over again in the twelve months that followed.

“And if you died in the process, no one would be the wiser, since you were already dead,” John whispered, and Sherlock inclined his head in agreement.

“Mycroft would have been the only one who knew for certain, and the few others who cared would have already finished their mourning and moved on. It seemed . . . kinder, as well as the safest way,” Sherlock said, hesitating a bit over the idea that anything about his false death could be considered kind. John knew where the hesitation came from, and he smiled humorlessly.

“‘A bit not good,’ that – but nothing about it was even remotely good, so maybe it could be considered a saving grace,” he quipped, striving for lightness – but the statement came out more solemn than he intended, and John almost forgot to breathe as the phrasing struck him and he once again locked eyes with Sherlock. A saving grace – somehow, despite all the horror and grief of the last year, they were both _here_ , they were both _alive_ , as were the other people they loved. It was all thanks to the careful, swift planning of Sherlock’s genius mind and the willingness of his selfless heart, the heart he kept so carefully hidden and guarded under logic and sarcasm and cutting remarks, rudeness and arrogance and impossible behavior.

Neither of them could look away as John’s comment hung in the air. Sherlock was studying him intently again, and John gazed back at him just as fixedly, waiting, though he had no idea what he was waiting for – but John saw the instant when something changed in Sherlock’s eyes, some last wall of resistance came down and caution was thrown to the wind. Sherlock lifted one pair of their joined hands and rested them against his cheek.

“You were still alive. That was all the grace I wanted,” Sherlock murmured, and John thought his heart might burst.

He shifted position just enough so that he could lean forward and rest his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I never would have stopped mourning for you, you idiot,” he murmured back, his voice thick with tears. “You saved me long before you fell from that rooftop.”

In the next breath, he closed the few millimeters of space between their lips, kissing Sherlock with infinite gentleness and yet with all of the pent-up longing that he had thought would never find expression. Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then his long fingers were sliding through John’s hair, holding John in place. John felt dizzy with the sensation; Sherlock’s lips were so soft, the feel of him brand new and yet utterly familiar, as if John had kissed him a million times before and simply didn’t know it until this minute.

They kissed until they were both desperate for air, learning the taste and texture of each other slowly, reveling in the wet slide of their tongues and the soft brushes of their lips. When they finally broke apart, panting, John reached out and stroked Sherlock’s cheekbone, doing freely now what he had been too afraid to continue earlier.

“I love you,” he said softly. “Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Sherlock smiled, a full smile that was, John thought, quite simply breathtaking in its happiness, and his hand found John’s again and held tightly. “I love you too, John. I should hope that would be quite obvious.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft interferes, and John and Sherlock start to understand each other's feelings a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

 

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Two**

 

Before John could reply to Sherlock’s declaration, the snick of the door latch caught the attention of them both, and Mycroft strolled into the room, wearing an expression that was somehow affectionate and condescending at the same time.

“It’s really high time you two sorted that out,” he said pointedly, his eyes knowing and amused. “Tea?”

Sherlock scowled at his brother, and any worries John might have had about the kinder version of his – what was Sherlock to him now? Lover? Boyfriend? Partner? They really needed to talk about that – the kinder version of his best friend being on display for all were immediately set to rest. His glower was classic Sherlock animosity, as was the sarcastic, biting drawl that was only employed when Sherlock was at his most annoyed.

“Your timing is impeccable as always, brother _dear_ ,” Sherlock bit out, glaring daggers at Mycroft. “So kind of you to interrupt us.”

Mycroft merely smiled blandly, and John had the sudden urge to deck him. Mycroft honestly could be infuriating when he wanted to be.

“My apologies, but there really are a few things we must sort out,” Mycroft said, sitting down as a tea service was brought in by one of the attendants. When it was set on the table, Mycroft poured them all cups of tea, taking his black and giving Sherlock two lumps of sugar, and then unerringly giving John milk but no sugar in his own cup. John simply shook his head; trust a Holmes to remember how he took his tea after not seeing him for a year.

“First, there is Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft went on. “She does not know you’re alive, Sherlock, and I hardly think it a good idea to simply spring you on her.”

“No, we can’t do that,” John said instantly. “She could go into shock, she could faint, she could have a heart attack – there are any number of things that might happen. She’s not a young woman – even though I would cheerfully bet on her chances against an assailant,” he grinned, prompting a smile in return from Sherlock as they both remembered their landlady hiding Irene Adler’s phone in her brassiere.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said dryly, “but her ignorance also means that 221B is out of reach, at least for the moment – and in any case I would prefer to keep you in sight, Sherlock, at least for a bit longer.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John could already feel the impatience vibrating in his flatmate’s thin frame. “Moran is dead, Mycroft. He was the last of Moriarty’s close associates, and I do not fear that one of Jim’s minor employees will come after me – at least not before we hear something of it. You have tabs on all of them, and I seriously doubt that any of them are intelligent enough to be a serious threat.”

“I would prefer not to take chances, all the same – and you are still legally dead, Sherlock, so it would hardly do to suddenly be out and about in London, when you don’t have so much as an ATM card that you can call your own,” Mycroft said smugly.

John snorted. “As if he ever used it when he _did_ have one,” he said, shooting a glance of affectionate exasperation at Sherlock, who pouted at him and gave him a half-hearted glare for teasing in front of Mycroft.

“Would it be too much to ask for you to speed that process along?” Sherlock asked, his icy sarcasm only matched by his distaste for being so dependent on his brother.

“Anthea is already working on it, but it will take several days,” Mycroft said, ignoring his brother’s hostility with the ease of long practice.

“Might I offer a suggestion, Mycroft?” John said politely, his brain having come up with an idea during the brothers’ bickering.

“I am all ears, John,” Mycroft said, looking at him attentively as he took a long swallow of his tea.

“Mrs. Hudson has been after me for months to move back into the flat,” John pointed out. Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment. “What if I do exactly that? It will give me a chance to get things settled for us, and then we can decide how best to talk to Mrs. Hudson. It might be better for you and I to speak to her first, Mycroft – she might think I’ve gone 'round the twist if I try to tell her myself, and we all seem to agree that it isn’t a good idea for Sherlock to simply appear at her door.”

Mycroft considered John’s statements for a moment and then slowly nodded his head. “Excellent, John. I think that will do nicely. And in the meantime, Sherlock,” he added, raising a hand to forestall his brother’s protests – “you can stay at the house. I have a room here that will be quite sufficient for a few days or so. No one else but Anthea and the guards know the house codes, and there is enough surveillance on it that we would know in seconds if anything was wrong.”

“Marvelous,” Sherlock said in exasperation, his irritation plain. John sympathized. Being constantly watched by Mycroft and his employees was not at all appealing, not least because he wanted to be truly alone with Sherlock. However, he understood the necessity – even Mycroft could not be everywhere at once, and it was better to have someone watching for any potential intruders. As diligent as Sherlock had been, one could never be entirely certain about anyone involved with Moriarty.

“John can come with you,” Mycroft responded mildly to his brother. “I’m assuming that neither of you want to be apart more than you have to be, and Anthea will see to it that you are not disturbed. I highly doubt that Baker Street is in a fit state to be lived in, at least right away. John can maintain the illusion that he is going back to his bedsit in the evenings until the flat is clean and manageable again, while he is really keeping you company. By the time he has made 221B habitable, we should be able to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, as you should be back in the land of the living.”

“So that takes care of one of our problems,” John stated. “What are the other things that need sorted?”

“Your Detective Inspector will want to know you are alive, I presume,” Mycroft said, arching a brow at Sherlock. “And Miss Hooper as well.”

Sherlock shut his eyes, and John watched as he rubbed a hand over his forehead in agitation. He didn’t want to have to explain, John knew – he hated displays of sentimentality as a general rule, despite his clear altering of those boundaries where John was concerned. Emotions were difficult for him, and it was going to be exhausting enough explaining everything to John – there were still so many things John wanted to know. He didn’t, however, want to put Sherlock through all of that more than once, and so he thought for a few seconds before squeezing Sherlock’s hand in reassurance.

“I don’t think Molly will be that difficult,” he said, speaking more to Sherlock than to Mycroft. “She already knew you were alive afterward; she knew you might be coming home. We can leave something nice for her at the lab, with a note that will let her know when to come round to the flat. It will give her a little time to get used to the idea before she sees you.”

Sherlock gave John a grateful look. “And Lestrade?”

John grinned mischievously. “We’ll get him to come back to Baker Street, too, but in a way that’s a little more fun for you.” He turned to Mycroft. “Mycroft, what would it take to get some of Greg’s cold case files from the last year, without him noticing?”

Mycroft smirked, looking a bit like the cat that ate the canary as he sipped his tea. “Very little, John. Very little indeed.”

As John began to explain his plan, a slow smile also grew on Sherlock’s face, and by the end he was grinning.

“It’s perfect, John. And thank heaven it saves me from having to explain myself yet _again_ ,” Sherlock said, maintaining a tone that suggested he thought it would be insufferably boring, but John saw the worry lurking.

“Exactly. Although goodness knows what Greg will do once he’s actually standing in front of you. Can’t predict that, really,” John said a bit apologetically.

Sherlock considered that. “He may punch me again – and I probably deserve it,” he acknowledged, “but I doubt he’ll do anything worse. Lestrade is not given to being irrational.”

“Because rationality plays a huge part in how people react to death, never mind resurrection,” John muttered, and he saw Sherlock’s lips twitch even as the detective tried to hide it.

“Very good,” Mycroft said in satisfaction. “I’ll make all the arrangements as soon as may be. John, if you would call Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, I’m sure she will let you in straight away. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to get some of your clothes and books out of storage, Sherlock, so that you are fit to be seen and have something to occupy yourself. I’ll have them brought over to the house. Of course, Lestrade’s cold cases should keep you amused for a day once we get them.”

John stared at Mycroft for a moment. “In storage. That was why you came yourself.”

To John’s surprise, Mycroft suddenly looked haggard again, and even a trifle embarrassed, which was not an expression John could ever recall seeing on his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, John, I was at Baker Street only about three weeks after the events at Bart’s. In fact, I simply felt it was . . . the right thing, the most respectful thing to do, and so I did. Neither Mummy nor I could decide what to do with everything straight away, and so we . . . didn’t do anything at all.”

John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, and the shock that John was sure was written on his face was reflected on Sherlock’s. The detective was looking at his brother with a piercing stare of assessment that could not quite hide the surprise in his eyes.

Mycroft. Mycroft had been waiting, too, had been caught in the same kind of grieving stasis that John had found himself in. It was almost more than John could believe. It was true that Mycroft had been relieved of his grief much sooner than John, but the evidence of how hard he had worked since, how desperate he had been to bring Sherlock home safely, was all over his body.

“Well then,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat and standing. “I will have Anthea and a driver take you over to my residence. John, do leave those notes with her, would you?”

“Of course, Mycroft,” John said politely. “And would it be possible to have us stop at my bedsit as well? There really are a few things I should grab.”

“Not a problem at all,” Mycroft nodded, and made a quick escape out the door, leaving John and Sherlock still on the sofa.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Notes?”

“A few suggestions to keep your brother from keeling over and needing to be hospitalized,” John explained succinctly. “I chastised him, he said Anthea could take care of it if I told her what was needed, and I took him up on that unexpected offer.”

Sherlock gave him a look of wonderment. “He actually did mourn me, before he knew I was alive.”

“Sherlock, you’re his _brother_ ,” John stressed, leaning forward. “Mrs. Hudson had to remind me of that fact, as I was so angry at him for the first six months after you died that I frankly didn’t care if Mycroft was at the bottom of a well.” Sherlock let out a soft huff of surprised laughter before John continued. “I know the two of you don’t have the best relationship, but you are also probably the only two men in England who can understand one another intellectually. You share a history. Regardless of how much you might disagree, Mycroft cares about you. You said yourself that he did everything he could to help you once he knew you were still alive.”

“He did,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “It’s just . . . unexpected. I always assumed I was an annoyance, someone he looked after for Mummy’s sake, up until the point where he actually needed my skills. Even then I thought he tolerated me more for what I could do than because I was related to him.”

“You didn’t see his face when I confronted him about what he had done,” John said. “That was before . . . it was after we had been at Kitty Riley’s, before I met up with you again – I’m assuming you went to talk to Molly?” he queried, and Sherlock nodded an affirmative.

“Well, I went to Mycroft because I had figured out that the only person who could have given Moriarty so much information on you was your brother. I laid into him, he acknowledged I was right and told me how it happened, and he was – devastated,” John said. “At the time I didn’t care, and frankly thought he deserved every bit of guilt that he could put on himself and that everyone else could hand him – but I could tell how upset he was,” John concluded. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him, but even I never doubted that he cares, even if he has a misguided way of showing it.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin contemplatively, and just then Anthea came into the room, the ever-present Blackberry in her hand.

“Ready, boys?” she enquired, and both John and Sherlock rose to their feet. John took his jacket from the back of the chair, and to his surprise, Sherlock went over to a coat rack hidden in a corner, returning with the much-loved Belstaff coat in his hands.

“You still have it,” John said dazedly, and Sherlock, startled, looked over at him.

“Of course. It wasn’t at all suitable for some of the places I traveled, nor some of the disguises I had to assume, but Mycroft kept it safe,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, pulling it on and retrieving a blue scarf – a newer one, John saw, but the same deep shade of blue – from the pocket.

John had to stop and blink back tears. Sherlock had been wearing the coat when he fell, but standing in front of him now was the Sherlock John saw in all of his memories – suit, scarf, and Belstaff, collar turned up and the coat swirling about him as they ran across London or flew through a crime scene.

“John?” Sherlock asked softly, quizzically, and John shook his head and tried to smile, though he knew Sherlock could see his emotion.

“Nothing, it’s – nothing. It’s brilliant. I missed you,” he managed, and Sherlock knit his brows, still puzzled, but took his hand in reassurance and pulled him toward the door.

Anthea had wisely kept silent, John noted gratefully, and as they approached, she tactfully changed the subject. He might have to rethink his impressions of Mycroft’s enigmatic assistant.

“Dr. Watson, I understand I am to get some medical advice from you?” she asked as she held the door open for them.

John nodded, his brain switching gears as he remembered his earlier diagnosis of Mycroft. “Right. Anthea, I don’t want to make him submit to IVs, because among other things I hardly think that would inspire confidence in him politically, should anyone find out. But he absolutely has to eat three meals a day. He has to be hydrated all the time – every time he empties a glass of water or a cup of tea, there should be another one in front of him, without him ever having to think about it. No caffeine, not even in his tea. It’s a diuretic, and I want his body to hang on to fluids. Make him take sugar in his tea for a few days, even if he usually doesn’t – it will help his energy levels. And seven hours of sleep, minimum, every night, for several weeks. Consecutively would be best, but if he can’t do that, make him take a kip in the middle of the day if you have to. If he doesn’t start taking care of himself right now, and I mean immediately, he could honestly collapse, and I don’t think any of us want the British Government in hospital. It’s going to be bad enough having one of the Holmes brothers in all the papers.”

“You’re telling me,” Anthea agreed, in what was probably the closest thing to an honest opinion John had ever gotten from her. “I’ll see it’s done, Dr. Watson.”

“Get some blood tests done in about three weeks – glucose, iron, Vitamin D, calcium, all the usual – to make sure his levels  are back up to normal, or at the very least going up,” John instructed. “I know you probably have ways of doing that with discretion, but make sure it happens. If there’s something else going on, if all of this mistreatment of his body has caused some other problem, his treatment might have to be altered in some way.”

Anthea tapped quickly on her Blackberry as they arrived at the car, and when they had all clambered in the back, she reached out and laid her hand on John’s forearm. “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said sincerely.

John gave her a brief but honest smile. “You’re welcome,” he said, and Anthea smiled back at him before sitting back and resuming her typing.

“The next thing you know, Mycroft will have hired you as his private physician,” Sherlock said acerbically, and John turned to him with a stern glare.

“You’re getting subjected to the exact same thing once we get home, and so help me, Sherlock Holmes, if you argue with me I will treat you by force. Don’t think I can’t. Right now just about anyone could take you down with the right pressure points, and I am not just anyone,” John snapped. His anxiety over Sherlock’s physical state was very real, and he knew from long experience how terrible Sherlock was at taking care of himself.

He was expecting an argument, but Sherlock merely smiled and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headrest. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear doctor,” he murmured. “I could never mistake you for just anyone.”

Warmth coursed through John at the endearment, and he looked out the window with a small smile, studiously avoiding Anthea’s raised eyebrows – but his hand found Sherlock’s again, hidden underneath the folds of the Belstaff, and they stayed that way quite comfortably until the car arrived at their first destination.

 

* * *

 

John really needed very little at the bedsit. Leaving Sherlock and Anthea in the car, he swiftly packed several changes of clothing into a duffel bag, placed several smaller items, his Browning, and his toiletries on top, grabbed his laptop bag, and finally picked up a double-locked Pelican case that had also been securely fastened to his bedframe.

He made sure to lock his room as he left, and when he emerged back on the street, Sherlock got out of the car to help him put the bags in the trunk, giving John a curious look as he saw the locked case.

“You’ll see,” John said with a laugh. “I’ll show you when we get to Mycroft’s, I promise.”

The second leg of their journey was, thankfully, considerably shorter than the first, and John had to keep his jaw from dropping as they pulled up to an imposing building in Knightsbridge, one of London’s most expensive neighborhoods.

Anthea led the way this time, punching in a long code at the door and nodding to the guards in the foyer before leading them into the main part of the house. Unlike before, in the car, John wasn’t able to keep himself from gaping. The house was beautiful. Anthea was moving swiftly, and so he only had a blurred impression of high ceilings, beautiful archways, marble, flowers, and glass, but everything simply breathed taste and expense. They went up a large staircase in the center hall, and turned to the right at the top, going down the hallway until they were confronted with another set of double doors.

“This is one of the guest suites, and will be yours while you’re here,” Anthea said with a small smile. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you remember the layout of the house, so I’ll leave it to you to show Dr. Watson around.”

Sherlock looked startled to realize that Anthea was addressing him, but he nodded, and John reflected that his reaction was understandable; coming from Anthea, “Mr. Holmes” was always Mycroft. Anthea nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned the door handles and preceded them into the room.

The suite was, like everything else about Mycroft, immaculate, expensive, and tasteful, though John wasn’t expecting the warmth of the place. The dark wood and rich russet upholstery made everything feel cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves; there was a large sofa and two comfortable-looking reading chairs, and a wide coffee table that was clearly meant to hold books and files. There was a large fireplace with an ornately carved wooden mantle taking up most of one wall, with a beautiful flatscreen television anchored above it, and Anthea efficiently lit the fire that was already laid in the grate.

Off the living area there was a fairly large kitchen, and that space was more modern, with dark quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, but the same warm finish throughout. Opposite the kitchen was an office, full of filing cabinets, more books, and a desk that John thought was suited to a high-end government official – huge, heavy, and capacious. It was clear, though, so presumably it was meant for the use of guests. A small hallway in the back led, he assumed, to the bedrooms and bathroom, and altogether John thought it would be a lovely, luxurious place to spend a few days.

Sherlock unceremoniously dropped John’s duffel and laptop inside the doorway and took off his coat, draping it carelessly over a chair. He then lowered himself gingerly to the sofa and resumed his thinking pose that had been interrupted in Mycroft’s office – something else that made John smile. He saw Anthea press her lips together at the strewn belongings; clearly she was used to Mycroft’s fastidiousness about his personal space. Sherlock doubtless knew that it would upset his brother to leave things lying about, even in guest rooms that had been assigned as theirs, and John gave a slight shake of his head at Sherlock and gave Anthea what he hoped was an apologetic smile.

“Thank you so much,” he said. “We really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem at all, Dr. Watson,” Anthea said, giving him a glance that let him know she trusted him to keep Sherlock at least somewhat in line during their stay. “A courier should be here in an hour or two with some of Sherlock’s things. They’ll ring the bell.”

“Oh,” she added, “I should give you the code for the front door, in case you need it.” She took out her Blackberry and typed a quick text, and John heard the ping of his own phone as it was received. “Memorize it and delete that, if you can,” she said to John, and John nodded in understanding; the security key for Mycroft’s home was not something that should be readily available from someone’s phone. It didn’t surprise him at all that Anthea had his mobile number; that was easily within Mycroft’s reach.

“Right then, I’ll be off,” Anthea said, moving briskly toward the door. “I’ll pick up a few of Mr. Holmes’s things before I go and take them back to the Diogenes. There should be plenty of food and drinks up here, but if there’s anything you need, just ring for Willoughby. I’m sure Sherlock remembers.”

Sherlock cracked an eye open at the mention of his name, and John mouthed “Willoughby?” at him as the door clicked shut after Anthea, which produced a smile from Sherlock.

“The butler; he’s been with us since Mycroft was in his teens and I was just a boy,” Sherlock explained.

John shook his head. Sometimes there really were no words for how stark the differences were between the British classes.

Belatedly, he realized that he was still holding the Pelican case; he’d been so busy looking around and then listening to Anthea that he hadn’t bothered to set it down. He did so now, putting it on the table next to Sherlock and shedding his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, before claiming the armchair next to Sherlock’s head for his own.

Sherlock had sat up and was studying the case, looking so confused by it that John grinned.

“You aren’t in the army anymore; you keep your Browning on you as much as possible, and if it’s not on your person it’s in the bedside drawer; the case is too big for a small firearm anyway; why would you still have a Pelican case?” Sherlock murmured.

“Well, properly speaking, I didn’t. You know that; you would have seen it if I had it before. I just knew where to get one when I needed it,” John smiled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlocks, handing it to Sherlock. The detective unlocked them deftly, and then John reached over and spun the combination lock, though he knew Sherlock’s eyes would follow the numbers. He sat back once he pulled the lock off, waiting, but Sherlock still appeared to hesitate.

“Well, go on then,” John urged him, and Sherlock blinked, clearly taking himself out of his mental deduction space, before reaching out and lifting the lid.

His cherished Stradivarius lay nestled in the foam, looking for all the world as if he had set it down in Baker Street hours ago, rather than over a year ago. It was immaculate; not a bit of dust dulled the smooth wood of the instrument or the bow, and John had asked the manufacturers to include slots for the rosin and tuning fork as well.

“John,” the detective breathed, reaching out slowly to run his fingers over the instrument. He raised his eyes to the army doctor, shock and adoration mixing in his face, and John felt his heart jump at the look. “You kept it. You had it, all this time. Why?” the detective asked, and John’s face twisted into a confused frown at the honest curiosity in Sherlock’s voice.

“You didn’t know I had it? I thought surely Mycroft would have told you. He never said anything to me, but I figured he must have known, even though he never asked me about it.”

“Perhaps he did know,” Sherlock said slowly. “I never asked for it or inquired where it was. I was never anywhere that would have allowed me to play, never anywhere long enough, and in any case I would not have wanted to carry it about and risk damaging it. The only time I played while I was gone was in a gypsy camp – I’ll get to that,” Sherlock preempted him, as John opened his mouth to ask. “But I didn’t – I never thought that _you_ would have it. I thought Mycroft must have kept it; it is a valuable piece, aside from being mine. You _hated_ being woken up by my playing, John; why would you keep a reminder of something that was so clearly obnoxious to you?”

John shook his head in disagreement, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t hate being woken up by your playing, Sherlock – the only time that was true was when you were frustrated and made your violin imitate something like a dying cat,” he said with a small chuckle. “I did _not_ appreciate that at 3 am. But I loved hearing you play, and it never mattered when. I thought – I often thought that it helped keep the nightmares away, actually,” John admitted, his cheeks going faintly pink. “When – when you would play before I was asleep, I slept better – and if I had a nightmare but then you started playing after I woke up, it was easier to sleep again.”

Sherlock simply stared at him. “You never said anything.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves suddenly getting the better of him. “Yes, well, it hardly seemed like something I could mention at the time. I was sure you must have noticed at some point – you notice everything - but you never said anything, and so I didn’t either. And you played often enough while we were awake, and that was –” John stopped, at a loss for words, and his mouth went dry as Sherlock reached out and took his hand again, stroking one thumb over his knuckles.

“It was what?” Sherlock prompted, and John looked up at him. There was still only inquisitiveness there; Sherlock wanted to know, and he wanted John to be comfortable telling him. There was no coyness, no previously deduced knowledge of what John would say, and John abruptly realized that Sherlock was utterly unaware of the picture he presented when he was entirely focused on creating music.

“Sherlock, do you honestly not know how gorgeous you are when you play?” John asked frankly, and Sherlock’s cheeks went as pink as John’s had been a minute before, but he deflected it with his usual sarcasm, though it was much warmer in tone than it was with anyone else.

“Really, John, how much of a narcissist do you think I am?” he quipped, and John raised his brows.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he returned dryly, and then they were both grinning, the tension broken and the ease returning.

Still smiling, John studied their hands as he resumed speaking, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, somehow enjoying the contrast between the detective’s long, slender musician’s hands and his own slightly broader tan ones. “Sherlock, watching you play – for me, anyway, it’s like seeing the things you hide from everyone else, like you’re channeling all of your emotions into the music instead of showing them to the people around you. It’s – breathtaking. It took me ages to even realize _why_ , why I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you when you had that violin in your hands – but once I understood it, I couldn’t see anything else.”

“And that,” he added quietly, “is why I took your violin with me, when I left Baker Street. Because I saw your heart most often when you played, and it was beautiful.”

Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John’s stomach began to turn with uneasiness. He looked up at his best friend again, searching.

“Too much?” he questioned carefully. Sherlock hadn’t let go of his hand, and John resisted the urge to tighten his grip; he didn’t want to give Sherlock any reason to pull away.

Sherlock still looked dazed, but he shook his head decisively in the negative. “No. No, John, I am just – surprised. You continually manage to confound my expectations. Even though I think I know you better than anyone, I am unable to always predict how you will react to something or what you will choose to observe. I suppose that is why you are a source of endless fascination,” he admitted with a smile. “I never thought you would see so much in something I do all the time, particularly because you seemed to find it an annoyance. I’m really almost upset that I failed to observe _you_ , when you were observing _me_ so intently,” he finished, sounding vexed, and John laughed.

“I’ll take it as a compliment that I manage to get anything past you at all,” he answered. “Even genius consulting detectives are not omniscient, and I’m thankful for it.”

“I also never realized I was quite so . . . unguarded when I played,” Sherlock said after a pause, and John could hear the discomfort, the vulnerability in the statement, and it made him flinch internally. “I have always used music to . . . feel my way through a case, let my mind work in the background while I focused on playing. Music has always let me release my emotions, let me refocus my thoughts on the logical progression of events, and so I never censored myself . . . but I suppose I had gotten used to playing without an audience. I never really played _for_ you, did I?” he wondered rhetorically.

John didn’t feel that needed a response, and Sherlock removed the violin from its case tentatively, stroking it with his long fingers as though he didn’t quite remember the feel of it – and he probably didn’t, John thought; it had certainly been long enough.

Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes warm and bright. “I’ll play for you. I’ll have to practice a bit,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up, “but I’ll play for you when we’re back at the flat.”

John swallowed the lump in his throat. “That would be wonderful.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock turned his head, cutting off any attempt John would have made to continue speaking. John stood, with a small sigh, and went to answer it, knowing that Sherlock probably didn’t want to move if he was comfortable.

When John opened the door, he was confronted with a man who was perhaps in his late fifties, with dark grey hair and kind eyes, dressed in a perfectly pressed suit. He was pulling a cart with covered serving dishes, and the smell alone was enough to make John’s stomach growl.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” the man said warmly, holding out a hand. “I’m Alexander Willoughby, the family butler. I’m very pleased to finally meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you as well,” John said heartily, shaking the man’s hand and stepping back to let him through. “That smells wonderful; thank you very much. You didn’t have to.”

“No trouble at all; we couldn’t have either of you starving, could we?” Willoughby said, and he rolled the serving cart toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. “What have you been doing to yourself, Master Sherlock? You look like death, and your brother looks worse.”

John winced at the word choice, and Sherlock saw it, but he tossed a fairly cheerful reply over the back of the couch for Willoughby’s benefit. “Oh, the usual, Willoughby, hunting down criminal masterminds and saving the world from crime and corruption. I admit I did come off a bit worse for wear this time.”

“Only to be expected when one comes back from the dead, sir,” Willoughby called back, and while the tone was light enough, there was the barest hint of a reproach in it, and Sherlock stilled before rising up and striding to the kitchen. John followed out of an almost morbid desire to know what would happen.

He wasn’t disappointed, though it was precisely the opposite of what he expected.

Sherlock walked over to where Willoughby was uncovering plates of frankly delectable lamb curry and twisting the cork out of a bottle of wine, and he laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

“I am sorry, Willoughby,” he said contritely. “You have always taken good care of Mycroft and of me, and I know my . . . apparent death must have been very difficult. I did not wish to cause hurt, but it seemed the only solution at the time.”

As if it wasn’t amazing enough to see Sherlock apologizing to his family butler, when the butler looked up at Sherlock, his expression startled John – deep, deep affection tempered with shrewd familiarity, and just a trace of the grief that must have been much deeper than he was letting on.

“Apology accepted, Master Sherlock,” the butler said kindly. “Just don’t do it again. Your brother explained what must have been the basics of it to me, and I understand why,” and here he threw a keenly perceptive glance at John, “but losing you twice is quite enough for this family.”

John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock went still again, and he saw the detective’s fingers tighten further on the butler’s shoulder before his arm dropped.

“Thank you, Willoughby,” Sherlock murmured, and the butler smiled before turning his attention back to the wine bottle.

“Dinner in just a moment or two, sir, Dr. Watson,” he said, tipping his head respectfully in John’s direction as the wine cork gave with a loud _pop_.

John gestured at Sherlock, and the two men made their way slowly back to the living room before John wound his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and leaned their foreheads together.

“Twice?” he whispered shakily, and Sherlock’s arms came around him instinctively, comforting him.

“The drugs,” Sherlock explained, running a soothing hand up and down John’s spine. “The worst of it was when I was in my mid- and late twenties, out of uni, not enough work, not enough anything to occupy my mind, and I disappeared for days at a time. Slipped away from Mycroft’s cameras, didn’t tell anyone where I was or what I was doing. It made Mummy and Mycroft . . . quite frantic.”

John closed his eyes. “I can imagine,” he said, not quite managing to sound as neutral as he wanted; his chest ached as the feelings from the last year momentarily overwhelmed him again.

Sherlock pulled him closer, bringing John against him and nestling his head next to John’s.

“You remember when Lestrade performed that fake drugs bust, to try and get me to talk about Jennifer Wilson’s case?” he asked, and John nodded against him.

“It was Lestrade who saved my life when everything was at its worst. I had been pestering him to let me help with cases at the Yard, and he hadn’t done it; he wouldn’t let me into the crime scenes then, but he would sometimes tell me the details if he was truly stuck, and I gave him enough help that way that I think he started to trust that I knew what I was doing.”

Sherlock paused, and John could feel his friend rubbing circles over his bad shoulder, a soft continuous touch that calmed the fear sparking along his nerves.

“However, Lestrade only saw me when I was sober – which wasn’t that frequently,” Sherlock added self-deprecatingly, “ – up until the day he found me unconscious in a crack house after I’d been missing for two weeks.”

John let out a harsh breath through his nose, his hands tightening almost painfully on Sherlock’s back. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

The circular motion stopped and Sherlock’s hand simply rested over John’s shoulder blade, keeping him close.

“I was more than a little . . . lost, then,” Sherlock admitted, his voice dark, and John wondered what it was that had driven Sherlock to such desperate measures to keep his mind occupied – or to make himself forget. He wasn’t going to ask now, though, not when they were still finding their balance and this was the first time Sherlock had ever opened up to him about his drug use.

 “Lestrade called an ambulance, and it was Mummy and Mycroft and Willoughby who got me through the withdrawal and the detoxing,” Sherlock went on. “Willoughby has always been very fond of me, very kind to me, even when I was a boy. He took shifts with Mycroft and Mummy, stayed with me when they needed to sleep or be out. He was . . . the only person I could really talk to after Father died, for a while. ”

John shut his eyes. He had seen detoxing patients, and the thought of seeing Sherlock like that – strung out, twitchy, feverish, in pain, vomiting – made him sick to his own stomach. The image of a younger Sherlock grieving for his father made him want to cry. Sherlock’s tone made it clear he had adored his father, and John could only feel indebted to Willoughby if he had helped Sherlock through his grief.

They were both silent for a moment, just breathing each other in, before Sherlock continued.

“Once I was clean again, Lestrade started small, feeding me things he was sure I could solve and  gradually working up to the harder cases. The small cases he had solved already; I think he just wanted to see what I got from the files, but after those he started letting me into crime scenes. He also watched me like a hawk to make sure I stayed sober, and I knew he was watching. I used a few times, and he knew, but it was never that much or that dangerously again.”

“Thank God for that,” John replied, lifting his head. He studied Sherlock. “So that night, when you told Lestrade you were clean –”

“I had been for just over three years,” Sherlock finished. “I still am – but the flat wasn’t,” he admitted ruefully.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, suddenly laughing. “I don’t want to know.”

“You really don’t,” Sherlock confirmed with a grin. “Plausible deniability.”

John’s grip around Sherlock’s waist tightened again. “I’ll have to thank Greg the next time I see him.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but John felt the soft press of lips on the hair near his temple and knew he had been understood.

“Everything is ready, Master Sherlock,” said Willoughby, appearing out of the kitchen.

“Thank you, Willoughby. We appreciate it,” Sherlock said warmly, and the butler gave a quick bow and smile before letting himself out.

Sherlock took John’s hand and led him back to the kitchen, where Willoughby had laid their plates and wine on the breakfast bar, along with utensils and cloth napkins. They both sat and began to eat in companionable silence, and John almost felt overwhelmed again. Even in one of their shared silences, Sherlock’s presence was unmistakable, worlds away from the emptiness in Baker Street after his death or the deafening vacuum of John’s bedsit at night. He resisted the urge to take Sherlock’s hand again; his friend needed to eat, and John wasn’t about to impede his ability to do so.

After they had each consumed about half of their plates, he cleared his throat and ventured another question.

“After – after you were clean,” he ventured, “was that when Mycroft began to treat you like a problem? Manage you? Is that where your feud stems from?”

Sherlock paused, setting down the forkful he had been about to eat. “It grew worse after that,” he acknowledged. “The roots of our problems were already there; we had always bickered as children. Ten years difference in our ages didn’t help, either,” Sherlock admitted.  “Once he knew I had been an addict, however, knew where I had been disappearing to, he was relentless in trying to keep me under control. He may have been right to do so, at first, but I resented it bitterly – and it became a habit with him, even when it was clear that I was capable of functioning on my own again.”

“I’m sorry,” John said softly. He knew that Mycroft worried constantly over Sherlock; the elder Holmes hadn’t been lying about that when John first met him. At the same time, John knew how much Sherlock craved independence and couldn’t tolerate interference with his methods or his personal life; no wonder he was so hostile about Mycroft’s endless hovering and unannounced visits.

“This year made it better,” Sherlock said reflectively. “I doubt we will ever be in perfect accord, but it helped us to have a common goal or two. I wanted Moriarty’s web gone, as did he. I wanted to come home to you; he also wanted to keep me alive.”

John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before giving in and reaching for Sherlock’s hand. “You know that I’m always going to feel obligated to him for this. I’m still angry with him, and I don’t think I’ve forgiven him yet, but he’s damn near killed himself trying to help you. You’re still _here_ , partly because of him.”

Sherlock disengaged his hand from John’s in order to run the same hand through John’s hair.

“I know,” he said quietly, and John gave him a grateful look, but then Sherlock’s expression turned mischievous. “I also know that you will _always_ pick me, and it certainly can’t hurt to have Mycroft reminded of that every once in a while.”

John grinned, a small chuckle escaping him as he thought about Mycroft’s probable response to that. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m also right,” Sherlock declared, smiling back.

“You are,” John agreed, and the kiss happened naturally then, both of them turning and leaning in until their lips met. Sherlock’s hand came up to rest along John’s jaw, and John took his hand and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder, and suddenly they were both trembling, their kiss still gentle but feverish, as if they both needed to know that this was _real_ , that they were together, that they were both alive and breathing and with each other. John’s head spun as Sherlock’s tongue traced his lips, and he let out a soft gasp, pressing them closer together, before they both gave up altogether and just stood, desperately trying to get closer with every shift of their mouths.

It floored John, the sheer amount of tenderness and  longing and desire he felt for this man – never in a million years could he have thought, before meeting Sherlock, that he would feel this way about another person, as if every atom of his body, as if his very soul, needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He thought he had lost Sherlock once, and nothing – _Nothing, ever again_ , John thought fiercely as he moved his lips to Sherlock’s neck, softly kissing and sucking his way down – would keep him from Sherlock now or in the future, not if he had any choice in the matter.

Just as John touched his lips to the small hollow between Sherlock’s collar bones, Sherlock gripped his shoulders in an unmistakable, if unspoken, request to stop, and John immediately took a step back, trying to calm his racing heart and looking up at his best friend.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and his heart was beating just as erratically as John’s, his lips were kiss-swollen, the bright color of his eyes was almost swallowed by his pupils, and the naked desire on his face stole John’s breath from his lungs – but there was something else there, too, some flicker of uncertainty or lack of knowledge that John immediately wanted to erase, with whatever reassurances he could give. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him close again in silent support, and he felt Sherlock give a shuddering sigh before he spoke.

“John,” he said again, his voice low and his arms tight around John, as if he was afraid the former soldier would retreat from him, “I want this, want _you_ , so very much, and I am – honoured that you would trust me with your heart when I have put you through so much, but – will it upset you if –”

John could think of a million endings to that thought, but none of them mattered when Sherlock was clearly struggling for words and afraid of rejection. He had to make Sherlock understand that he was going to _stay_ , no matter what they might have to work through.

“Sherlock,” he said, taking Sherlock’s face between his palms. “I love you, and by some _miracle_ you are standing here in front of me when I thought I had lost you forever. No matter what you say right now, it’s all right. Tell me, love. What do you need?”

Surprise flashed over Sherlock’s features at the endearment, and John felt as though he should be surprised himself – but he wasn’t. It felt natural and true, and the glowing warmth that was slowly filling Sherlock’s eyes was something he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.

“I need to _understand_ ,” the detective admitted, reluctance and frustration both clear in his tone, and a glimmer of comprehension started to break through the worry in John’s mind. “I don’t want either of us to jump into this without knowing how we got to this point; I don’t want to create fault lines in the new part of our relationship when we’ve only just started to repair the old part. I’ve seen and done a great deal in the last year, and so have you, and those are all pieces that are missing.”

“So in other words,” John said, and he smiled in spite of himself and hoped Sherlock saw the affection in it, “you need the missing data in order to understand the whole picture. That makes perfect sense. I should have seen that coming, actually.”

Sherlock’s shoulders uncurled and relaxed with relief, and he laid another soft kiss on John’s lips. “I want to _learn_ you, John – everything I don’t know, everything I’ve missed, either during this last year or while we were still at Baker Street. I don’t want to rush this. We have time now, time I wasn’t sure we’d ever have, and I want to take advantage of it.”

“That sounds marvelous,” John said, leaning up to return Sherlock’s kiss. He took Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Were you planning on sleeping tonight?”

Sherlock grimaced. “I’d rather not, but even I am forced to admit that my body needs the sleep. Moran caused me enough injuries that I still tire quickly, but sleep fitfully at best.”

John nodded. “Another reason we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. My apologies for that; I wasn’t thinking very clearly,” he said, reaching up to brush a curl off Sherlock’s forehead and giving a lopsided smile.

“That makes two of us, then,” Sherlock answered, smiling back. “Why did you ask about the sleeping?”

A knock came again at the door, and John cursed inwardly at the awful timing. Sherlock gave him a look, but went to the door himself this time. He found Willoughby carrying numerous garment bags and two additional zipped-up totes, one of which clearly contained books. Sherlock quickly reached out to divest the butler of some of the heavy load.

“Thank you, Willoughby. The courier came, then?” he said, and Willoughby nodded.

“He was just at the door, sir. This should be enough of your clothing to be going on with, and it looks like your brother has sent some books and other things for you,” Willoughby said.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said in satisfaction. “If I get bored I can always start picking the locks on his filing cabinets.”

“I’ve no doubt you would, sir,” Willoughby said cheerfully. “Just keep me out of it when he finds out.”

“Of course, Willoughby; I’d never let you see me do it anyway,” Sherlock said, pretending to be affronted, and the butler merely winked at him before bowing and heading down the hall.

“I’m beginning to see what you must have been like as a child,” John teased as Sherlock turned back toward him, sauntering through the living room on his long legs. “Brilliant and therefore in all kinds of trouble.”

“Nothing much has changed, then.”

“I’m afraid not,” John rejoined, and they were both grinning again. John had forgotten how it felt to smile this much, to share jokes and banter and laughter with Sherlock, and going by the softness in his friend’s eyes, it seemed Sherlock had forgotten it too.

“Why did you ask about the sleeping?” Sherlock questioned again, and John cleared his throat, remembering where they were before Willoughby knocked.

“I was hoping – I was hoping you would stay with me,” John requested shyly, stumbling over his words a bit in his nervousness. “Even if you don’ t sleep at all, even if you’re restless, just – having you next to me would – help. I really don’t want to wake up tomorrow and think I dreamed all of this.”

Sherlock rested a hand on John’s cheek, and when he spoke his tone was some uniquely Sherlockian mixture of arrogance, teasing, and tenderness that was only possible for him.

“And what makes you think that I would have been willing to let you out of my sight again, even if you had wanted to sleep alone?” he asked softly, with a slow smile, and John could only nod, turning his head to place a grateful kiss at the base of Sherlock’s palm.

“Shall we finish the curry, then?” he said. “There’s bound to be something ridiculous on the telly, just waiting for you to tear the contestants to pieces.”

“Mmm, sounds invigorating,” Sherlock agreed with a wink, and the two of them went to retrieve their plates from the kitchen.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discuss some of the aftermath of Sherlock's fall, what Sherlock has been doing in his absence, and start to address how, exactly, they fell in love to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Author’s Note: I must, once again, thank WickedforGood13, who has read countless PMs about my headcanon and characterization for this story and soothed my worried nerves. She is an endless help and a very good friend. I also want to thank all of you who have read and reviewed! I appreciate it so much.
> 
> I have no personal experience whatsoever of the armed forces, so I do not in any way claim that John’s impressions and/or experiences are accurate, just my own attempt to understand how he functions. However, it is true that LGBTQ individuals have been able to serve openly in all branches of the British armed forces since 2000 – a good ten years before John meets Sherlock.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Three**

 

John woke slowly the next morning, feeling soft sunlight touching his eyelids and warmth surrounding him. He felt more rested than he’d been in ages, and he was acutely conscious of the body next to his in the bed. Sherlock’s long limbs were stretched out beside him, and John’s nostrils were full of his scent again, the earthy spiciness that was all his overlaid with a faint trace of chemicals and an inexplicable hint of nutmeg.

John opened his eyes and turned carefully onto his side, wanting to see Sherlock but not wake him. The detective was on his back and apparently sound asleep, but John could tell he wasn’t comfortable – his muscles were too tense, his posture too stiff. He was still in pain, even while unconscious, and he wouldn’t feel particularly energized when he woke up. Ibuprofen helped enough during the day that Sherlock could ignore most of his discomfort, but he needed to sleep well in order to heal. John decided he would try to think of a sedative that Sherlock could take for a few days – once he’d had some tea.

Right now, though, he wouldn’t leave the bed or his spot in it for the world. The sunlight trickling in around the curtains illuminated Sherlock’s pale skin as though it were white marble and picked up the highlights in his dark curls. He looked younger, softer, and still devastatingly handsome. John reached out a hand and gently combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, marveling again at the softness of it.

The remainder of the evening before had been pleasant and congenial, much like their quiet evenings in 221B – though any readers of John’s blog might believe that they had never had any quiet evenings, they had managed them quite often when there weren’t any cases, and they had been some of John’s favorite times. Sherlock had generally been absorbed in an experiment or playing his violin to stave off his boredom, while John caught up on the latest medical research. Thankfully, being in Mycroft’s guest suite had made very little difference at all in their dynamic, though John knew they were both hyper-aware of each other.

Once they had fetched their plates from the kitchen, they settled on the couch and flipped through the television channels until they found some ridiculous game show – John wasn’t sure he even followed the premise of it, but it had been entertaining all the same to watch Sherlock pick apart the foibles and personal lives of the contestants, to the extent that he could do so through a television screen.

When they were both done eating, they had shifted positions – although Sherlock could not sprawl on the couch as was his habit, not with his injuries, he still seemed to be more comfortable lying down, and he had maneuvered himself until his head was in John’s lap. He was hesitant to do so, John could tell, even though he was projecting an air of unstudied casualness, and John had run his hand over Sherlock’s hair in silent confirmation that yes, this was fine, and they were completely fine. The tension had drained out of Sherlock’s muscles at the touch, and from then on they both simply enjoyed the closeness. When they ran out of game  shows, they settled on reruns of Poirot, and watching Agatha Christie  with Sherlock was as amusing, if not more so, than watching him tear apart game show contestants – his continuous mutterings about illogical events in the storyline, red herrings, unrealistic behavior by the criminals and the innocent parties alike, all tickled John immensely.

It wasn’t until they were both almost nodding off that John had reached over and switched off the telly, then nudged Sherlock until he sat up, yawning blearily and wincing.

“Come on,” John had said, quietly insistent. “You don’t want to sleep like that; your body will hate you for it tomorrow. Take the bathroom first. I’ll change the dressing on your arm when you’re done.”

Sherlock had gone to perform his ablutions and change, and John had gathered their dishes and quickly cleaned them in the kitchen before digging out his own pajamas and toiletries from his duffel. He had also gathered up the small medical kit he carried everywhere, set everything on the large queen bed in one of the bedrooms, then gone and rapped on the door of the en suite.

“I’ll fix your arm whenever you’re ready, Sherlock,” he had called.

This morning, Sherlock’s arms were covered with the luxurious, sleep-rumpled sheets of the bed, but John winced as he remembered the slice that lay underneath the bandage on Sherlock’s forearm. The gash had been nasty and deep; the only fortunate thing was that it had been made by a very sharp knife, and so the cut had been clean, with sharp, defined edges instead of ragged tearing of the tissue. Someone had done a good job of stitching it up – Sherlock himself? Mycroft’s doctor? A stranger? John would have to ask; he had no idea where Sherlock had been when he confronted Moran – and while Sherlock would definitely have a scar, the wound would hopefully heal cleanly, into a single white line. It was also fortunate that it had been his right arm and not his left; his violin playing would not be impeded in his fingering hand. John had made Sherlock flex his fingers and rotate his forearm, and he had not seen any obvious nerve damage, but it would be easier (and less frustrating for his best friend) to rehabilitate Sherlock’s bow hand if necessary.

The hand that wasn’t stroking Sherlock’s curls clenched into a fist as John thought about the injuries covering Sherlock’s body. Sherlock had borne the cleaning and re-dressing of the wound with silent stoicism and a clenched jaw, though it must have been painful. Because he had been without his shirt, John had gotten a fresh look at not only the bruises, but the myriad cuts, scrapes, and other injuries that were all in various stages of healing, as well as a few that had long since healed but had left scars here and there.

Moran was lucky he was already dead. John would have taken pleasure in making his death as painful as possible, along with the death of every other person who had dared to injure Sherlock. John could still barely process that Sherlock had done what he had – not that he had accomplished it; John knew exactly how single-minded the detective could be, but that he had done it for John’s sake, for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, for Lestrade’s sake, for the handful of people he loved with fierce devotion, though he was often terrible at showing it. John might want to shake him and shout at him for going off into so much danger on his own, but his friend’s actions also only made him love Sherlock more.

After John had finished wrapping up Sherlock’s arm, there had been a small moment of awkwardness when they both looked at each other, knowing that this next part was new and crossing lines that neither of them had expected to ever cross. John, however, had raised his chin in determination and taken Sherlock’s hand, leading them both to the bedroom. He had never been one to shy away from danger, certainly not with this man by his side, and he wasn’t about to start.

He had lain down, stretching out on his side, and gestured for Sherlock to take the other side of the wide expanse of bed. Sherlock had settled himself carefully, on his back, and John had leaned over and brushed his lips over Sherlock’s forehead.

“I don’t want to put any weight on you; that’s not going to feel good with your ribs and all of those bruises,” he had said quietly. He wanted Sherlock to understand that it wasn’t that he didn’t crave physical closeness; he simply didn’t want to make Sherlock any more uncomfortable than he already was. “Otherwise I’d happily have my arms around you, or yours around me. But I’m right here if you need anything, yeah? Wake me up if anything feels wrong.”

Sherlock had looked up at him, his eyes tired but bright, and nodded with a little smile before propping himself up long enough to give John a soft kiss. “I will. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock,” John had whispered back, and he had fallen asleep with one hand carefully resting on the detective’s arm, needing the reassurance and comfort of touch even in sleep.

He was doing it again, John realized – one hand was still in Sherlock’s hair, and the other was resting on his bicep. He couldn’t get enough of touching Sherlock, it seemed – and while part of it was certainly shock, still, that his best friend was alive and physically real, John knew the rest of it was simple yearning. He had spent a year thinking that his chance to have this was gone forever, that the possibility of loving and being with Sherlock had been snatched from him almost before he realized it existed, and now it was almost impossible to stop himself from affirming his feelings, affirming what they both felt, in as many ways as possible. Touch was one of the easiest and most profound, and every touch they shared made everything a little more certain. Part of John still couldn’t believe that in the space of twenty-four hours, he had gone from feeling as though he would never be whole again to being given both of his deepest desires, glowing with promise.

“How is it,” he whispered, “that someone as extraordinary as you, Sherlock Holmes, could love an ordinary army doctor like me?”

“That adjective is patently untrue,” Sherlock murmured sleepily, shifting a bit and arching into John’s touch.

“Which, ‘army’?’” John said facetiously. “I _was_ an army doctor, Sherlock; I can show you the file.”

“No need; Mycroft already did,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.

John chuckled, leaning over and kissing Sherlock’s temple. “Of course he did. You prat.  How long were you laying there while I was watching you?”

“I actually was mostly asleep,” Sherlock confessed, finally blinking his eyes open. They were soft as he looked at John. “I must admit that being woken by your voice and your hands in my hair is a vast improvement.”

“Over what?” John questioned, not sure he wanted to know just where or in what conditions Sherlock had had to sleep in the last year.

“Over everything, over any other form of waking I’ve experienced,” Sherlock said, his voice still rough with sleep and his speech slowed. He smiled that same happy, vibrant, slightly shy smile John had seen the day before, and John couldn’t resist leaning down again to kiss him tenderly, on the lips this time, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“So it was ‘ordinary’ you were taking issue with?” John teased him when he pulled away. “I think it is true, Sherlock; I’m quite a typical person in most respects.”

“Rubbish,” Sherlock retorted brusquely, sounding more awake by the second as he worked his way into an argument. “Anyone who can tolerate me as a flatmate, much less love me as you seem to, is far from ordinary, John. Donovan would tell you that you are certifiably insane.”

“Oh, and Sally Donovan’s word is to be taken as gospel. She was so right about you,” John snapped. The words came out harsh, harsher than he meant them to, as he remembered not only Donovan’s accusations before Sherlock’s fall, but also several very vicious and quite possibly slanderous things she had said to reporters afterward, until someone had put a ban on all Scotland Yard employees giving interviews about Sherlock.

He tried to pull away, upset with himself for getting angry and breaking the lovely cocoon they had created, but Sherlock was having none of it, bringing his arms around John’s upper back so that he couldn’t move without pulling at Sherlock as well.

“What did she say to you?” Sherlock demanded, and his voice was determined, his keen eyes taking in John’s face and expression, and John knew that once Sherlock and Sally saw each other again, the detective would be having words with her.

“Nothing. Everything. Everything she has said before and more besides. And not to me, but to the papers. I didn’t want to see her face after you died, and it’s a good thing I didn’t. It would have taken all of my self-control not to lose my temper in front of half the Yard, or hit her, or do something equally reprehensible,” John said bitterly. “She deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock said tightly. “She never has liked me, and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I neither like nor respect her. She saw her chance to get back at me and took it. All the better for her that I was supposedly dead and unable to defend myself. She must have been delighted.”

“Oh, she was,” John agreed. “Why is it that she dislikes you so much anyway? Apart from the obvious ‘piss off’ factor? I know why you dislike her; she’s downright cruel to you.”

“She doesn’t like that I’m an ‘amateur,’” Sherlock said, the air quotes clear in his voice. “She doesn’t like that the Yard needs a consultant because there are cases they can’t solve. She doesn’t like that I’m a ‘freak’ with reasoning powers far beyond her own. She’s like many of the people I attended school and uni with; she doesn’t like people who are smarter than she is or who she can’t understand. I am both.” His voice was simultaneously cutting and brittle, and it hurt John to hear it.

“You’re not a freak,” John said heatedly. “Don’t ever say that again, and don’t you dare believe it. I want to give her a piece of my mind every time she calls you that.”

“She’s hardly the first,” Sherlock replied, old pain still visible in his eyes, and it amazed John all over again that there were people who thought this man did not feel. “You, my dear John, are one of the very few people who has only unreserved admiration for my skills, and I still fail to understand how it is possible.”

Sherlock’s eyes warmed as he finished, looking at John, and John smiled.

“It’s possible,” he said, “because you are brilliant and deserve to be recognized for it. You’re also beautiful, and compassionate, and temperamental, and arrogant, and a tiny bit mad, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Sherlock kissed him then, softly and gratefully, and they grew lost in each other for a few minutes before John spoke again.

“Lestrade was demoted after everything happened, did you know that? It was Donovan and Anderson who made him go to his superiors in the first place; their suspicions were the reason the Yard tried to arrest you, and then Greg was their sacrificial lamb. They did a thorough reprimand for everyone you ever worked with, but they made Greg the poster boy for what happens to those who bend the rules – and then they all looked like fools when it turned out you were innocent and he was right.”

“They gave him his position back, I hope?” Sherlock asked sharply, and John nodded.

“They did. It hasn’t been easy going for him, though – there were a few people who stood by him and you, but there was a lot of resentment stirred up over your supposed guilt, and even more surfaced when those who had been glad to see Greg go down had to watch him go back to his former position. You know that there are some people who will use anything to their own advantage.”

“If Lestrade was demoted, they could try to use the power vacuum to advance themselves,” Sherlock reasoned quickly, and John nodded.

“There were several people who did exactly that, and then it was all undone when Greg got his rank and credit back. Some of the Yarders haven’t really forgiven him for that.” John paused, shamefaced, and sighed. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have lost my temper before. It’s just – this year has been horrible, Sherlock. Greg’s had a terrible time, and people have said awful things about you, and it was all I could do to just keep myself going. I avoided all of the media after the funeral, but it was hard to ignore all of the time. Donovan and everything she said about you is a sore spot.”

Sherlock pressed lightly on John’s shoulder blades, easing him down so that his head was resting on Sherlock’s sternum, and John felt Sherlock’s hands card through his hair. He waited for any sign of discomfort in Sherlock’s body language, worried that his weight would be too much, but it didn’t come, and he slowly relaxed, listening to the familiar deep voice in his ear. “That was the one advantage of being gone – I didn’t see any of the media fallout, and Mycroft was wise enough not to tell me any details. I asked if everyone was fine, occasionally, and he knew that ‘fine’ meant alive and breathing and minimally functional and responded accordingly. Otherwise, I focused everything I had on finding and eliminating Moriarty’s associates. It was the only way I could bear it, most of the time,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Sherlock,” John said gently, “are you okay? And I don’t mean physically, though we’ll take care of that,” he added as Sherlock opened his mouth. John rested a hand against Sherlock’s cheek, lifting his head to look the detective in the eyes. “I mean, are _you_ all right? From the sounds of it, you killed quite a few people in the last year, and despite what you do for a living, actually killing people is not your area – or wasn’t, a year ago.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s lips turned up. “Well, to be fair, they weren’t very nice people.”

Caught off guard, John laughed as his own words from the night he shot Jefferson Hope were parroted back at him, and he felt Sherlock shaking under his fingers as well, the detective’s low chuckle sending another rush of happiness through him. God, he had missed this.

“There’s something wrong with us, you know that,” John said, once he had managed to get his giggles under control. “Laughing about crime scenes and murders and assassinations.”

“Normal is _always_ boring , John,” Sherlock said, still smiling. “And the fact that you can laugh with me at crime scenes and assassinations, among many other things, makes you the most extraordinary person I have ever known.”

John could tell that the bout of laughter had been painful for Sherlock, and he moved off Sherlock’s chest and lay back on his side, his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock took John’s hand that had been on his face and slipped it between both of his own, speaking earnestly.

“There are a number of things I regret about the last year, John, but killing those people is not one of them. It was not enjoyable; it was meticulous, exhausting, dangerous work – but it meant that you were still alive. It meant that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were still alive. More importantly to the larger world, it meant that Moriarty’s web could not reconstruct itself, and that you and I would not be dealing with some terrifying disciple of his a year, or two years, or five years from now. I did not want that for myself, or you, or us, on the very rare occasions I dared to hope that there could _be_ an ‘us.’”

“I should have been with you,” John murmured, guilt heavy in his voice. “I was trained to do that sort of thing; I could have helped you.”

“You could have,” Sherlock agreed, one of his hands still running soothingly through John’s hair. “But even if I had told you, if you were prepared to leave everything and go with me, would you have sacrificed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in order to do so? For that is more than likely what would have happened, John. Even if you had still been there to see the fall, once you disappeared after my death, all the rules would have been off. Someone in Moriarty’s organization would have made sure of it, probably Moran. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would have been dead in a few weeks, or a few months, once they realized where you had gone – and we would have been looking over our shoulders at every turn. They would have followed us, and possibly alerted everyone we were trying to catch unawares.”

John nodded. “I understand, Sherlock, I really do. Sometimes a lone operative is the only way to get a job done, and you created the perfect illusion, so that no one would be looking for you or see you coming. That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said, with a pained smile that was closer to a grimace.

“I didn’t like it either,” Sherlock confessed, his eyes dark and haunted as he looked at John. “I hated thinking about what I had done to you, and I hated being without you and away from you. It was harder to think, harder to breathe. Everything was more difficult.”

“I thought breathing was boring,” John teased softly, but he knew Sherlock heard the catch in his voice.

“It is,” Sherlock declared emphatically, his arms tightening around John again. “Even more so when one’s chest feels like nothing so much as an aching void.”

John blinked as tears burned behind his eyelids, and he raised himself up on his elbows to kiss Sherlock, softly and slowly, losing himself in the aching tenderness of it, the sweet friction of their mouths moving together, and cataloging every small noise they both made, until he pulled away with a sigh, framing Sherlock’s face in his hands and keeping their eyes locked.

“I had that feeling every day you were gone, and for all I knew I would feel that way for the rest of my life,” he whispered. “All of this,” and he waved a hand to indicate them, the bed, their proximity, “should feel strange, but it doesn’t, and even if it did I wouldn’t _care_ , because I love you, and for the first time in a year that void is gone. And for the record, I don’t ‘seem to’ love you, as you said before that unfortunate segue into Sally Donovan’s highly unprofessional behavior. I love you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but I need you to believe that.”

“I do,” Sherlock affirmed, his mouth curling up as he brushed a hand over John’s cheek. “More data on several points would be appreciated, however.”

“Gladly, as long as I’m allowed questions, too,” John said, stretching to try and get the blood flowing to his muscles. “But after we’ve had some tea and breakfast, please.”

“Heaven help the force that tries to get between John Watson and his tea,” Sherlock said irreverently. “Willoughby will be delighted that you’re force feeding me.”

John twisted around to glare at Sherlock as he sat up. “I’m not yet, but I will if I have to. You need to eat, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how bad you look?”

“I looked a good deal worse before you saw me yesterday, but I am aware,” Sherlock said sardonically. “And you’re hardly one to talk, Dr. Watson. You’ve lost a stone and a half in the last year; you’ve been working long hours at the surgery, which helps with your limp and tremor but has repeatedly aggravated your shoulder; you sleep little and when you do it is frequently interrupted. Need I go on?”

John’s mouth fell open, but he promptly shut it again as resignation covered his features. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that. I’d say it was amazing, and it was, but it’s also rather embarrassing,” he admitted, looking down. “I . . . haven’t really bothered to take care of myself either.”

Sherlock reached out and touched his forearm, both in apology and in silent supplication. “Willoughby makes incredible omelets. Shall we?”

John smiled, understanding the gesture, and reached for his robe. “God, yes. Oh – wait there just a minute,” he said hastily, remembering something. He placed a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before darting out of the room, leaving a mystified Sherlock for approximately thirty seconds before he reappeared. In his hands was Sherlock’s blue dressing gown.

“Something else I kept,” John said, his words muffled against Sherlock’s lips. “I thought you might be wanting it.”

“As always, I underestimated your brilliance,” Sherlock answered, kissing John back softly, between words. “My dressing gown does make everything so much more delightfully dramatic.”

 

* * *

 

When they reached the living area of their suite, Sherlock called down to the house kitchens and asked the butler for a cheese and broccoli omelet for John, and one with cheese, mushrooms, tomato, and basil for himself, along with tea and toast, yogurt and muesli. He raised an eyebrow at John as he finished, who nodded approvingly at him. There were plenty of nutrients, grains, and protein in everything, all ingredients their bodies both desperately needed. Sherlock thanked Willoughby and hung up, and John found himself studying his friend as Sherlock walked back over to the breakfast bar.

“Willoughby should be up in roughly seven minutes. He abhors serving cold food,” Sherlock stated, but broke off when he noticed John’s speculative look. “What is it?”

“You’re different here,” John stated, his tone fond but slightly perplexed. “Maybe just different, I don’t know. More relaxed? As though you feel – safer? Not something I ever thought I’d see in you when you’re in Mycroft’s house.”

The exhaustion returned to Sherlock’s eyes again, and John felt a pang in his chest for having brought it back. “Safety is appealing when one has spent every hour of the last year, waking and sleeping, either shooting or expecting to be shot. I wondered more than once if I was feeling as you had felt in Afghanistan, that constant feeling of pursuing and being pursued. Much as I usually relish it, it is grueling to live with as a continuous companion. But I’m not sure safety is the right word.”

Sherlock sat and took John’s hand. “Perhaps contentment is what you’re sensing? I admit it’s not something I have felt very often in my life, and I am still getting used to it,” he said with a small smile. “But I have been in more countries and donned more disguises in the last twelve months than I ever thought would be necessary or even possible. By the end, I had worn so many faces that I had almost forgotten what my own looked like, and I wanted desperately to be myself again.”

John tightened his fingers in wordless understanding, and Sherlock went on, his voice low and soft with emotion.

“Before I met you, I would have lived for nothing but that chase, John, just as I lived for every case, for the thrill of the puzzle and the hunt. This time, I lived for it because there was no other choice, because if I wanted my heart to stay whole, then I had to ensure you stayed alive. If I wanted to come home, then you had to be here to come home to. Even if you had hated me, had moved on, had refused to see me, it would have been better than coming back to a London where you did not exist.”

“The hard part was not the actual killing, not most of the time,” Sherlock continued. “It was the searching, and the waiting – interrogating people, follow trails, finding out where a particular operative was, making my way through corporate high rises and slums and everything in between. Seeing the worst side of humanity, the side that most people don’t ever see, don’t even know exists. Being filthy and tired and hungry, moving locations every night, changing my appearance constantly. I have been heartsick and so very tired, and I am through, for the moment, with pretense and disguise.”

Sherlock’s voice was gravelly and almost inaudible when he finished, and John simply leaned in and kissed him, too moved to find adequate words at first. He let Sherlock sag against him, let Sherlock simply rest on him as the detective released some of the weight he had been carrying for far too long.

“You _are_ home, and you _are_ safe, and you never have to pretend with me or hide from me,” John whispered finally.

Sherlock’s arms came around his waist and held. “I know.”

Their solitude was interrupted by a knock and the rattle of breakfast dishes, and Willoughby came in with the same cart as the night before, now laden with covered plates, bowls of yogurt, a steaming pot of tea and mugs, several kinds of juice, milk, toast, and muesli – in short, enough food to feed a small army, John thought in amusement.

“Good morning Master Sherlock, Dr. Watson,” Willoughby said with a smile. “I trust you slept well?”

“Better than I have in ages, Willoughby, and that’s a fact,” John said cheerily, putting some effort into his tone. “Sherlock insisted I had to experience the wonder of your omelets, and I have to admit I’m starving.”

Willoughby waved a hand as he started unloading the contents of his cart onto the counter and breakfast bar. “Sherlock exaggerates, Dr. Watson. He’s always had a soft spot for my omelets; I made them once when he was ill as a boy, and he’s irrationally persisted in thinking they’re magical, when in fact they are very simple. One of the few things I can cook well and don’t depend on the cooks to do.”

“I most certainly do _not_ exaggerate, Willoughby,” Sherlock disagreed, taking one of the stools for his own. “I’d had pneumonia and was utterly miserable. In bed for days, my whole body aching, my throat sore. I had hardly been able to eat anything and had next to no appetite anyway. Then you coaxed me into eating a plain cheese omelet, and it was the most magnificent thing I had ever tasted. Given the number of appalling omelets I’ve had since, not to mention how many omelets of _yours_ I’ve eaten, I think I’m well qualified to say that your omelets are culinary perfection.”

Willoughby laughed. “You’re going to be terribly disappointed, Dr. Watson, really,” he said, shaking his head.

John smiled. “Somehow I’m inclined to side with Sherlock on this one, Willoughby. He is so seldom irrational, especially with his praise, that I think you fail to recognize your own talent.”

Willoughby just shook his head again. “Well, judge for yourself then, before they get cold.”

Sherlock had already begun to dig in, and his expression told John that he was savoring his food in a way he very seldom did. The doctor took his first bite and very nearly moaned; the omelet was fluffy, creamy, and hot, and almost disintegrated in his mouth. John chewed and swallowed carefully, then fixed Willoughby with a sharp look.

“Are you sure you didn’t have another career as a chef, Willoughby? That was quite possibly the most extraordinary bite of omelet I have ever tasted.”

“My father was quite the accomplished cook, Dr. Watson. He may have taught me a thing or two,” Willoughby admitted, his lips twitching.

“I knew you were holding out on me,” John declared, pointing his fork at Willoughby.

Sherlock cocked his head. “How was it I never deduced that your father was a chef?”

“I was in my early twenties when I began to work for your family, Master Sherlock, and you were only five,” Willoughby responded. “Hardly at the height of your reasoning powers.”

“Oh, so they didn’t spring into being fully formed?” John asked teasingly, taking another bite of omelet.

“I was a precocious child but not _that_ precocious, John,” Sherlock said reprovingly, trying to look superior and failing.

“Precocious enough to be several years ahead in your reading, vocabulary, and cognitive skills, however,” Willoughby remembered.

 “Of course,” Sherlock said airily. “I demanded that Mycroft teach me chess.”

Despite himself, John almost choked, and he swallowed quickly. “Did he?”

“He did – although it was under protest,” Sherlock said. “I threatened to tell Mummy about the girl he fancied.”

John was profoundly thankful he hadn’t continued eating; he could almost feel his eyes bugging out of his head.

“ _Mycroft_ fancied someone?” he asked incredulously.

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course not; don’t be ridiculous, John. I could convince Mummy that he did, though, and plant evidence to make it look like he did, and he knew that I could. Mummy would have been insufferable.” He flashed John a wickedly mischievous grin, and John couldn’t help but grin back.

“Not for the first time, I am so thankful that you did not bend your mind to a life of crime,” he said.

Sherlock hummed, the smile lingering on his face. “It’s far more fun outsmarting the criminals,” he answered.

“I’ll leave you two to your breakfast, but don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, gentlemen,” Willoughby said, gathering up the miscellaneous dishes and utensils that were no longer needed but leaving the rest of the repast.

“Thank you, Willoughby. You are a master at omelets, and you’ll never convince me otherwise,” John complimented him. The butler shook his head, but he was clearly pleased, and John and Sherlock shared an amused glance as he left. John reached for the cup of tea that Willoughby had thoughtfully poured, and they both finished their omelets, toast, and yogurt in comfortable silence. John pointedly handed Sherlock more ibuprofen, which he took without protest, draining the last of his second mug of tea.

They worked in tandem to clean the kitchen, moving around each other in much the same way they had in Baker Street, putting things in the fridge and piling dishes neatly in the sink until the counters were clear and open once more.

Sherlock took John’s hand as they finished, threading their fingers together.

“We should go up on the roof,” he suggested quietly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Won’t it be a bit – cold?” John said hesitantly, and Sherlock smiled mysteriously.

“Come and see,” he said, and led John out the door, their hands still linked together.

 

* * *

 

Although they had taken the stairs the previous evening, it turned out that there was an elevator, and when its doors opened on the top floor, John frankly gaped at the room in front of him.

It was a rooftop conservatory and garden. The room that opened out from the elevator was encased in glass on all four sides, oak hardwood spreading out at their feet, a curved roof over their heads, and light streaming in and illuminating a breathtaking view of London, even on a day such as this one when a thunderstorm seemed imminent. There was a large couch and a gas fireplace in the center of the room, as well as several oversized armchairs. Two end tables held lamps with carved wooden bases and stained glass shades. On the far side of the enclosed room there were double doors, also glass, and beyond them John could see an outdoor terrace with raised garden beds that were mostly dormant now, but must have been breathtaking in the height of summer.

“Sherlock, this is incredible,” John breathed, trying to take in everything at once.

“The best room in the house, I’ve always thought, although Mycroft is almost never up here,” Sherlock said, satisfaction tingeing his voice at John’s agreement. He moved into the room and turned on one of the lamps, then flicked the switch for the fireplace, and the room immediately felt cozy, the warm light a pleasant contrast to the dark gray sky outside.

Sherlock held out a hand from where he stood, and John immediately went over to him. They wrapped each other up, wordlessly, standing in front of the fire with Sherlock’s head bent over John’s.

“You still have questions,” John whispered eventually.

“Yes,” Sherlock acknowledged, his voice just as quiet.

John looked up at him and smiled, reaching up to brush curls out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Ask, then,” he said tenderly, affectionate understanding shining in his warm blue eyes. “You’ll drive yourself crazy until you do. It doesn’t matter where you start. I meant what I said before; I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, and John saw the thousand questions, saw Sherlock’s relentless mind sorting through them, looking for something that would give him a place to begin without asking too much at once.

“That first night at Angelo’s, were you asking me out?” Sherlock said finally, the question blunt but his eyes intent on the answer.

John laughed, his voice still quiet, and slid his hands up to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“No. I really wasn’t,” he answered. “I was trying to suss you out – I’d known you less than a full day and I was already fascinated. And there was something . . . appealing about having a friend who was as unattached as I. I had so few people in my life, and not anyone I was close to, and I hadn’t met a single person who understood why that was."

Sherlock frowned. “What else did people expect? You’d left your whole unit behind in Afghanistan, you didn’t get along with Harry and still don’t, you hadn’t stayed in touch with your friends from med school because the army took over your life.  Were people really so imbecilic as to just believe that you would come home and have a whole network of people waiting for you?”

John smiled again, but it was tight and grim this time. “It’s what they expect of most returning soldiers. They aren’t prepared to deal with someone who has made military service his whole life, with nothing outside of it, and then gets invalided home.”

“Yet more proof that people are stupid and blind,” Sherlock muttered angrily. “Ridiculous.”

John touched his cheek. “Thank you for the indignation on my behalf – but I found you because of that stupidity, more or less,” he reminded Sherlock. “While I would love to help solve that particular problem in some way, at some point in the future, can we shelve it for the moment?”

Sherlock nodded, his brain already visibly whirring into gear again. “While we’re on Afghanistan – there wasn’t anyone you . . . cared for, while you were there? While you were in the army?”

John gave a thoughtful sigh, his lips tightening as he searched for words, and then he looked up at Sherlock. “Let’s find a more comfortable position to be in, before I explain. You shouldn’t be standing for so long, and this could take a while,” he said. He took a step over to the couch and arranged himself on it, laying on his side with his back against the back of the couch and leaving much of the wide seat cushions for Sherlock, who promptly laid down with his head on the arm rest. The fireplace provided warmth for them, and the lamp cast a warm glow over Sherlock’s features that made John’s heart speed up.

“Now, then,” John said, resuming running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, which was rapidly becoming one of his favorite things in the world to do. “Trust you to jump into a complicated question without even realizing it.”

Sherlock frowned again, for the second time in as many minutes, bafflement covering his face as he looked at John. “Knowing your previous sexual partners is complicated? How is that a difficult question?”

“It isn’t so much the question itself as everything that comes with it,” John returned, unperturbed. “Because that question is tied to a million others, all of which I had to sort through in the last year in order to understand what I felt for you. The short answer is that I had numerous partners, all women, all briefly, and only when I wasn’t in an active warzone – when I was on leave, usually. I was also constantly aware that there could have been more, of either sex – I had plenty of offers.”

Sherlock nodded, but his thoughts had clearly taken a different turn thanks to something John had said; his eyes were searching John’s face as though he was trying to answer a riddle from the Sphinx.

“You thought I was dead; why would you bother trying to sort out your feelings for me after that? Why would it matter?” Sherlock winced as the questions left his mouth, recognizing his habitual tactlessness that was A Bit Not Good, but John simply took Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“It mattered because you mattered, because you were everything. You _are_ everything, and if I didn’t know it before that day at Bart’s – and I think I did – I certainly knew it when I was looking at your corpse.”

The aching tenderness in John’s words took any sting from them, and for a moment the pair of them simply looked at each other, and John could see and feel the mutual comprehension, the recognition of the other’s suffering, that passed between them. Though Sherlock had been halfway across the world in the last year, being away from John had been an agony as wrenching as John’s grief.

“John,” Sherlock said hoarsely, his voice full of need and guilt, and John leaned down and kissed him passionately, silencing whatever objections or apologies he had been about to make. He only pulled away when they were both breathless, putting his lips next to Sherlock’s ear.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, “I love you, and I know enough for now about what you were doing and why you felt you had to do it. I’m not angry. I was when I first saw you, and I can’t promise I won’t be again, but we have both been hurting, love, far more than we should have been, and I want it to _stop_. I’ve thought about this conversation for so long, thought of every single thing I should have realized and should have done, and I want to tell you as much as you want to know.”

Sherlock watched him for what felt like an eternity, his eyes calculating and weighing the truth of John’s words, verifying John’s sincerity with a gaze that felt like fire before he finally tilted his head in acquiescence.

“So you had multiple partners in the army, but no one serious or long-term,” he prompted, returning them to the earlier thread of their conversation.

“No,” John agreed. “You might think that it’s easy to find . . . companionship in the army, but I never thought so. There are the anti-fraternization rules, for one – no officers are supposed to become involved with regular enlisted men and women. Although those rules were broken occasionally, it was always difficult for anyone who did, and even worse if they were found out. And I was a doctor; it felt like a conflict of interest to be involved with anyone I might have to treat. The battlefield and the hospital always came first; that’s how the army works. Regardless of who I was with, I had to be able to do my job. I got very good at compartmentalizing, keeping any kind of personal life away from the battlefields and the field hospitals. It was easier.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “You spent every minute of your life with the people of your unit; wouldn’t it have made more sense to find someone you could be with all the time?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t think so then. Do you remember,” he said slowly, “when I was so angry with you during the first Moriarty case? Before the pool? You had said that caring about the people he was holding hostage wouldn’t help save them, that you wouldn’t make that mistake.”

“I remember,” Sherlock sighed, his voice pained. The arm that was draped around John’s waist tightened in belated, silent apology.

“It took me ages to figure out what you meant; I didn’t really work it out until after you were . . . gone,” John said. “But then I realized it was like performing surgery. When I was repairing injuries, I put every thought of the person on the table out of my head. I focused on the details of their body, on the tissue and organs and blood vessels under my fingers. I could see the pieces more clearly, do a better job of repairing them, if I didn’t think about who I was working on. It takes a certain amount of detachment, and that’s even more true when there are bullets and mortar bombs trying to demolish the building around you.”

Comprehension dawned in Sherlock’s eyes as John spoke. “Cases are very much like that, yes.”

“I applied the same principle to my personal life,” John said. “I kept it separate from the unit, separate from my job, separate from the guns and the killing and the healing. That isn’t to say that I didn’t care for the few women I was with,” he added hastily. “I did. I didn’t divorce myself from them emotionally; that hardly would have been fair. But I found them away from the combat zone so that I could function in it when I went back. I could focus on the work, not the human lives that were linked with mine. The unit and the job were my life, but I kept intimacy outside of it.”

“The members of your unit were your friends, your brothers-in-arms, the people you worked to save. You shared the battlefield with them, the danger, the adrenaline high - but your sexual partners gave you a detached place of safety, something away from the rest of your life,” Sherlock processed aloud.

John cocked his head, considering. “Yes. I doubt I ever would have put it into those exact terms, but yes.”

“And you never took up an interested man on his offer when you were on leave? Weren’t you the least bit curious?” Sherlock asked in disbelief, and John chuckled.

“Most of us don’t think of everything in experimental terms, you know,” he said fondly. “And anyway, even that was a bit more complicated than you think. Not legally speaking, of course, but for me personally. I _was_ curious, occasionally. There were people in my unit who were gay, and a few more who were probably bisexual. I could never bring myself to try, though, even on leave, even when the man was attractive – and a few of them were very attractive.”

Sherlock thought about that, and John let him think, wondering if he would come to the correct conclusion. He very often did, but not invariably, and to John at least, this piece of his own heart had not been obvious, had taken thought and memory-digging and mental confrontation before he understood his own reticence.

“It’s to do with Harry,” Sherlock said finally, slowly, after several minutes of silence. “It has to be about her, but I don’t quite see how.”

“I will never stop being astounded by you,” John said with a shake of his head and a smile. “How did you work that out?”

“Not in any way that’s as neat as I’d like; it’s closer to a guess than I’m ever comfortable being,” Sherlock answered, his voice disgruntled but his eyes full of warmth at John’s admiration. “You and Harry don’t get along; you liked Clara but Harry divorced her; you’ve made it clear you don’t agree with a lot of Harry’s decisions, and alcoholism runs in families, which means one of your parents likely had the same problem and passed it on to Harry. There’s a lot of tension and bad history there, but she is still your sister. I would think that when she – what is the expression? – ‘came out,’ it went less than well.  You tried to help her with your parents but were not really successful.”

“All true,” John confirmed candidly. “Harry was a teenager when she told my parents she was a lesbian, and ‘less than well’ doesn’t even begin to cover their reaction. They didn’t throw her out, but they did everything but – shouted at her, called her every offensive name in the book, told her she was going to hell, told her she was disgracing the family, made it clear she wasn’t to bring her girlfriend home, gave her the silent treatment. I was in college at the time and came home when I could to try and talk some sense into them. They wouldn’t hear any kind of reason. I let Harry come and stay with me when she needed to, just to have a place where she could get away that wasn’t her girlfriend’s house. She refused to let them beat her – she called them names right back, shouted right back, refused to speak to them either. She had every right to react that way, but none of us ever really got over it. It went on for months, Sherlock – and even when my parents started talking to her again, they spoke to her like she was a complete stranger, only worthy of politeness. I couldn’t believe they could behave that way toward their own daughter. Our family was never perfect, but they let their hatred tear it apart. I stayed away from them as much as possible after that, though I tried to keep up with Harry.”

“But the trauma of it stayed in your subconscious,” Sherlock said lovingly, compassion in every line of his face as he ran his fingers through John’s hair. “You couldn’t bring yourself to go through it all again, so you ignored the handful of times you found a man attractive, even though no one in your family would have known.”

“Something like that, yeah,” John admitted. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it, at the time. Idle curiosity hardly seemed like a good enough reason to sleep with someone, either, not when I had never felt anything _more_ than that for a man. It seemed unkind.”

An extraordinarily uncomfortable expression fleetingly crossed Sherlock’s face, then, but it was gone before John could analyze all of its parts. He tucked it in the back of his mind for later; there was something there he needed to know.

“Always the honorable soldier,” Sherlock observed. “That is one of the few ways in which you _are_ predictable, John. You try to do the right thing, the kind thing, for almost everyone.”

“I suppose it’s the doctor in me,” John said. “I think of it like karma. There’s more than one way to help people heal.”

“And what extraordinary thing did I do, in this life or any other, to deserve you?” Sherlock murmured, his eyes full of quiet adoration as he looked at John.

“I could ask the same question,” John replied in a whisper, his throat thick but his eyes reflecting the same emotion as Sherlock’s.

“What changed? When did you know?” Sherlock breathed. Their foreheads were touching, now, their hands resting on each other’s cheeks, and part of John wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock again, have Sherlock kiss him back until they were lost in each other – but he had promised Sherlock answers, and the answer to this question needed to be said, even though it wasn’t going to be easy.

“When did I know I was attracted  to you, or when did I know I was in love with you?” John said carefully, wanting to clarify the question. “Because those are two very different things.”

“Either. Both,” Sherlock said, giving John his own shy smile, and John had to kiss him then, briefly, and smile in return. He would never get tired of seeing Sherlock’s true smile.

“Well, I had my attraction to you rather ungraciously thrown in my face, if you remember. You were there. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to realize it.”

Sherlock searched his mind for a split second, his eyes closed, before they blinked open again in certainty. “The power station.”

“The power station,” John agreed.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk about The Woman - and why, exactly, an army doctor and a consulting detective apparently need each other so very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of _Sherlock_ ; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  **Author's Note** : Everyone has been so kind about this story, and I am so very grateful for the positive comments. I apologize for the delay! It took me as long to write the first third of this chapter as it had to write the first three chapters together. These two have a hard time talking about The Woman; she seems to cause tension whether she's actually present or not. My RL has also been incredibly hectic, and my lovely beta (WickedforGood13) had to talk me through some of the rough patches. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> P. S. "I've got to see a man about a dog" is in fact a line from the play Flying Scud, premiered in 1866 and written by an Irish playwright named Dion Boucicault.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Four**

 

 “You’ll forgive me if I don’t share your fondness for Miss Adler,” John commented dryly. “She had an unfortunate way of turning my world on its head.”

“She did seem to have that effect on people,” Sherlock agreed, his tone bordering on hostile as he thought of the dominatrix. “You weren’t the only one.”

“I never thought I was,” John said, giving him a knowing look.

“‘Fondness’ is not the word I would use,” Sherlock retorted, returning the look with interest.

“Oh, really? What word would you use, then?” Despite the effort John made to keep his voice even, the question came out sounding defensive, and he cringed, turning his face away and rubbing the bridge of his nose. If only he could eradicate his own insecurity so easily.

Sherlock’s fingers came to rest lightly on his jaw and turned John’s face inexorably back toward him. John couldn’t find it in himself to resist. “John,” he said, and John felt some of the tension drain from him as his own name washed over him like a caress. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock gazing at him intently, his expression so open and unguarded, so unreservedly loving, that it made John’s heart contract in his chest. “Did you ever see me look at Irene Adler in a way that was anything close to how I am looking at you?”

“No,” John managed in a whisper. On the contrary, John had never seen Sherlock look at _anyone_ the way he was currently looking at John, as though John was utterly necessary to his continued existence.

“And can you imagine that I would tell Irene any of the things that you’ve learned about me in the last eighteen hours or so?” Sherlock continued, his voice still almost unbearably gentle.

John almost snorted at the idea; as it was, his lips twitched. “No,” he said again, his voice a little stronger.

“Why not?” Sherlock pressed, and John knew the question wasn’t rhetorical; Sherlock was trying to make a point.

“Because with the two of you, it’s about besting each other, about constantly having the upper hand,” John said swiftly, surprised at how easily the answer came to his lips. “You both want to win, all the time, and that doesn’t lend itself to vulnerability or intimacy. It creates an enticing game, yes, lends itself to sex, maybe, but not to something sustainable. Neither of you would share anything that would give the other an advantage.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock concurred, clearly pleased at John’s insight. “The word I would use is ‘fascinating’; Irene is fascinating the way any worthy adversary is fascinating. She is incredibly intelligent as well as being beautiful, and her first concern is always self-preservation. She is interested in power for the sake of protection, not for the sake of causing chaos – remember, it was Moriarty who had to tell her what to do with all of the information she held – but she is ruthless in pursuing her own advantage. She is a cunning dealer of information, but not a consulting criminal. I admired her talents – and _not_ the ones she used as a profession,” Sherlock clarified emphatically, his lips curling in distaste.

“But the text noise on your phone,” John said hesitantly. “Why would you keep it?”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, clearly choosing his words with care. “To remind myself who I was dealing with.”

John gave him a blank look. “Okay, you’ve lost me.”

Sherlock sighed. “I was as . . . discomfited by Irene’s attraction as you were. Her attention was . . . unexpected, all the more so for being blatant and obvious and not something I could fend off or insult away. I didn’t understand it, and it was unsettling.” John made a mental note of that, too; that was the second thing Sherlock had said in the last few minutes that begged for more explanation. Why would he automatically push away anyone who was interested in him?

“The text noise reminded me that Irene dealt in sex and attraction for a living, that she always had an agenda, that she got her way by knowing what people _like_ ,” Sherlock went on. “Not that the reminder really helped me in the end; she succeeded in making me look like a complete fool,” he said acrimoniously, his voice full of self-recrimination. “She still got what she wanted, at least as far as information was concerned. When she found she couldn’t get physical satisfaction from me in the usual ways, she handed me a puzzle, and when have I ever been able to resist that?”

John stroked Sherlock’s cheekbone with the backs of his fingertips, a soft gesture of absolution. “It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. Or if it was, it only serves to prove that you are occasionally as fallible as the rest of us. Irene’s life was threatened, or so we thought. It made sense to try and help her, even if you didn’t trust her. We also thought she had important information – and it turned out she did. That much was right. Ultimately, you kept everything from becoming a disaster – you cracked the code on her phone; you got Mycroft everything she had before she could use it. That counts for a lot, even if there were mistakes along the way.”

There was a crack of thunder right then, and John jumped, not expecting the sudden noise. He looked up as rain began to hit the glass above their heads and around them, leaving the clear walls spattered and prismatic. Sherlock ran his long fingers over John’s own, tracing the shape and feel of John’s hand, sending shivers of pleasure through John’s arm and soothing him simultaneously.

“I trusted Irene too quickly, not because of her attempts at seduction, but because I was wrong about how unwilling she was to be bought,” Sherlock said meditatively. “She _was_ willing; her price was simply much higher than most other people’s. That list she gave to Mycroft would have left her safe, anonymous, and wealthy for the rest of her life. It was Jim who bought her, really; once she had accepted his ‘advice,’ he would have demanded that she follow through with the information about the flight of the dead. Her life _was_ threatened, but by _him_ rather than American terrorists or either the British or American governments. As usual, her interest in self-preservation won out over everything.”

“I was so angry during that case,” John admitted quietly. “That entire case – _everything_ about our interaction with her upset me, and I despised her for it. I was angry at her for hurting you and lying to you, angry at her for presuming to think that she knew you better than I, angry at her for forcing me to see my own foolish blindness, and angry and humiliated that you had overheard all of it.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted together. “Was it just that she made you question your orientation, when you had never truly questioned it before? Or that her profession made you uncomfortable? I can see being angry at her for what she said in the power station, especially when you realized I had overheard, but why the whole case?”

“Irene seemed to . . . disrupt everything, the moment we walked in her door,” John said reluctantly. He had known this was going to be difficult, but it was even more painful than he had imagined, admitting these things to Sherlock, who was watching him with his customary penetrating gaze. “Disrupt everything you and I had spent the previous months building: our friendship, our working relationship, our balance.  I . . . didn’t know how to react. It – hurt, feeling as though I mattered less than she did, and I was . . . scared. I didn’t want to . . . lose you, lose what we had, lose the life that was the only thing keeping me sane. And I – Christ, this sounds pretentious, since I don’t know when your feelings changed – but if how I felt around Irene was anything close to how you felt around any of my girlfriends, then it’s no wonder they annoyed you so much.”

John blew out a long breath. He felt so exposed, articulating these particular thoughts aloud, that it was all he could do not to fidget, and he was unbelievably grateful when he felt Sherlock’s fingers slide through his in a firm grip.

“I knew Irene unnerved you and made you worry about me – and I imagine Irene can make just about _anyone_ feel off-balance physically, including you, if she can manage it with me - but I didn’t realize how insecure she made you feel about our friendship,” Sherlock said  reflectively, his eyes remorseful. “Your place in my life was so obvious to me that I tended to forget you didn’t see it. I didn’t help you see it, usually, at least not until Baskerville.”

 _“I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.”_ The memory made John smile, and he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead again.

“And just so you know, you aren’t entirely wrong about the girlfriends,” Sherlock conceded grudgingly, humor and petulance battling in his expression. “I didn’t want our partnership disrupted any more than you did - but they weren’t worthy of you, either,” he insisted, sending a glare at John. “Dull. Pedestrian. Even Sarah, who I liked more than the rest – and you weren’t really invested in them anyway.”

“I wasn’t,” John acknowledged, and Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. “That goes back to – well, let me finish my thoughts about Irene. I’ll get to the rest. At the time, I forced all of that turmoil surrounding you and her and our friendship into the back of my head. I didn’t want to think about what any of it might mean, and so I focused on the fact that I was worried _for_ you. That might seem ridiculous and patronizing, but I _was_ worried. I didn’t want Irene to hurt you, I spent every day waiting for it to happen, and I was furious when I thought she had succeeded.”

“She didn’t,” Sherlock countered instantly. “Not the way you thought. I was angry at her for making me look a fool – hated her for it for a while, in fact – but I was never in love with her. Intrigued by her intelligence, yes, but I never cared for her. When we first thought she was dead, when she sent me her phone to make her death convincing, I pitied her.”

“ _Pitied_ her?” John said incredulously. It was hard to reconcile the idea of pity with Irene Adler; she was not someone who invited or seemed to deserve that particular emotion. “Why?”

“For getting in over her head, for being too confident in her own cleverness. Having information you can’t decipher and don’t understand is a very dangerous game; anyone who wants that information is going to assume you _do_ understand it and know what to do with it. I thought she had become a victim of her own protection scheme.”

“Well that’s . . . understandable, I suppose,” John said, still trying to wrap his head around it. “I can’t say I ever pitied her, even when she really was dead.”

“She isn’t,” Sherlock said bluntly, and John stared at him, sure he had heard wrong.

“She – what? She’s dead. She was beheaded by a terrorist cell.”

“She’s not and she wasn’t,” Sherlock said imperturbably. “I saved her, through a rather convoluted escape plan that involved substituting myself for the man who was supposed to be executing her.”

“Mycroft told me – he _told me_ , that day he came to see me and I gave you her phone, that it would take you to fool him.”

“A rare actual coincidence, then. He still doesn’t know, unless he’s acquired the information somehow in my absence. I was owed a favor by someone in the NSA, and Irene is now doubtless a very skillful operative for the Americans, with her former identity wiped clean.”

“You are unbelievable,” John said, shaking his head. “Absolutely unbelievable. How did you get away with that without me knowing about it, and more importantly, _why_ did you do it in the first place? You just said that you hated her – which _I_ told _Mycroft_ that day, by the way.”

“I did hate her, or as close to it as I am ever likely to come, and I was furious with her – but in the end, I saw her as yet another of Jim’s victims. She didn’t deserve to die,” Sherlock explained. “She was foolish enough to do business with him, true – but up until that point she had never attempted to harm anyone with her information. She kept it for her own protection but never used it. I realize there is an argument to be made about her gathering such information in the first place, and I agree that it is a dubious moral decision at best. Irene likes power, or she never would have become such a visible and sought-after dominatrix. However, Jim undeniably used her, and then I foiled her, and had neither of those things happened, she probably never would have been in mortal danger to begin with. I wasn’t sorry I saved her, especially not considering everything that happened afterward. Had she not already been safely under the protection of the NSA, Irene probably would have been one more person in the snipers’ crosshairs, simply because Moriarty wanted to be rid of her.”

“So you went to Karachi, disguised yourself as an executioner, and somehow got Irene out of the country – and when did all of this happen?” John asked. “How did you keep me from knowing you had gone?”

“It was the weekend you went to that medical conference at the University of Edinburgh,” Sherlock said. “You were already out of the country, so it was easy enough for me to be as well, and I knew you would have been angry if you had been home.”

“Of _course_ I would have been angry,” John said heatedly, his voice rising. “Sherlock, you could have been killed! And for Irene Adler, of all people, who certainly didn’t seem to have any compunction about putting us in danger or feeding you to the wolves.”

Sherlock waved away that objection unconcernedly. “It was the right thing to do, John, and she was grateful; I would guess it’s one of the few times in her life she has truly been grateful for anything. She isn’t used to people being altruistic.”

“Grateful. I’m sure she was,” John muttered darkly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, John. Jealousy does not become you, especially when there is absolutely nothing to be jealous _about_. I made it perfectly clear to Irene why I helped her, and pity for her wasn’t the only reason. I also saved her life because that conversation you had with her in the power station gave me hope, the first hope I had that we could be _this_ ,” and Sherlock leaned up and kissed him firmly, emphatically, “and not just flatmates and best friends.”

It took John a moment to find words; he was, frankly, a bit gobsmacked. “You couldn’t have led with that?” he said finally, indignant.

“I suppose it would have been a bit easier, yes,” Sherlock said, amused, and John knew that was as close to a concession as he was likely to get.

“Git,” John grumbled, though there was no hurt behind it.

“You – you never did explain why that conversation made you realize you were attracted to me,” Sherlock said, and his voice was hesitant again, his eyes focused on their hands rather than on John’s face. “Why were her assumptions, her implications, so different from anyone else’s? Plenty of other people had assumed we were together.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand reassuringly, letting his eyes slide closed as he remembered his argument with Irene.

_“You **flirted** with Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“ **At** him. He never replies.”_

_“No, Sherlock always replies, to everything. He is Mr. Punch Line; he will outlive God trying to have the last word.”_

_“Does that make me special?”_

_“I don’t know. Maybe.”_

_“Are you jealous?”_

_“We’re not a couple.”_

_“Yes, you are._ _There. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’”_

_“Who - who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”_

_“Well, I am. Look at us both.”_

John could still hear Irene’s mockery, of herself and of him, and he had to swallow down the reflexive anger – but what had been even more unnerving, at the time, was the sympathy, even the empathy, that lay underneath her knowing tone. She had been out of her depth with Sherlock, as caught off guard by her own attraction as John had been by his.

“She admitted she was attracted to me, then said that you and I were already, essentially, a couple, then that she was a lesbian, and finally implied that you were also attracted to me,” Sherlock catalogued reflectively, in that uncanny way he had of catching John’s thoughts.

“She did,” John said slowly. “And it was the last bit, when she said that she and I were in parallel situations, that I really had to think about and confront honestly – in my own head, anyway, if not to her,” John clarified, his resentment of Irene still smoldering. “I had always thought of myself as straight, and she had always considered herself lesbian – which, in practice, meant that she and I were both attracted to women and not to men – yet  according to her, we were also both attracted to you, despite our declared preferences. And I knew, in that minute between when she sent her text and your phone went off, that she was completely right. I thought about it for much longer afterward, but I still knew then. I couldn’t refute what she said at all – and I hated her for stripping me so bare. It left me terrified of the same thing I had feared during the whole case – that I would lose you. Only it would be my fault and not hers, since I couldn’t deny _wanting_ you anymore.”

Sherlock’s fingers let go of his, only to come up and rest on the back of John’s head and stroke through his hair.

“Did you really think I would hate you?” Sherlock questioned, his voice low and pained. “Even if I was sure of what you felt, even if I did not feel the same, did you think I would so easily sacrifice our friendship over something you could not help? My only friend?”

John’s eyes were dark, and it took him a minute to articulate the thoughts in his mind. He knew how much they might hurt, even though they were no longer applicable. “No, I didn’t. But I couldn’t see a way forward that wouldn’t end badly, except to remain as we were. As far as I knew, as far as I could guess, you were still my best friend who was ‘married to his work’ – or you were my best friend who might be falling for Irene. Neither scenario really boded well for me. It seemed safer not to deal with the attraction at all, even once I realized it was there.”

Sherlock drew John’s head down until it rested on his shoulder, and John closed his eyes in contentment as Sherlock’s hand ran through his hair.

“We were both such _idiots_ ,” Sherlock said, and his voice was sharp, impatient, annoyed at the memory of his own failings, a complete contrast to the tenderness of his touch. The dichotomy amazed John all over again, that Sherlock could simultaneously convey such love for him and yet censure himself so harshly. Despite the “we” that began his sentence, John knew that Sherlock was not upset with him, but rather, upset with the combination of circumstances and miscommunication that had prevented them from realizing their mutual feelings sooner.

“I loved you so much, even then,” Sherlock continued, his voice breaking, “but I was terrified, John, and it completely impaired my ability to see you clearly, to see what should have been blatantly obvious. I was so scared of what I _could_ feel for you, if I allowed it, and the probability that you would never feel that way about me, that I did everything I could think of to resist and ignore my own emotions. You had already changed me in ways I hadn’t thought possible – I had let you inside my walls, against all my instincts, all my better judgment, almost without understanding why I did so. I was so _drawn_ to you, you were so interesting and essential from the beginning, that I wanted to know more in spite of myself – and then you kept surprising me, admiring my deductions, refusing to believe what others said about me, refusing to spy on me. Even when I annoyed or angered you, you stayed. That night at the pool – ” and here Sherlock had to stop and get his voice under control “ – when I thought for those few seconds that you had betrayed me, or worse, that you _were_ Moriarty, it felt like someone had shredded my heart to ribbons. And then, realizing you were covered in Semtex – if I had ever thought I didn’t have a heart, I was soundly proven wrong in those few minutes.”

“You were so frantic when you tore it all off,” John murmured. “I was surprised by that, but I took it as proof that you really did care about me and consider me your friend. Would you really have shot the vest, sent the place up, if Moriarty hadn’t gotten that phone call?”

“I was prepared to do it, yes,” Sherlock said evenly. “You had agreed, and I could see what you intended to do. You were going to throw yourself into me and send us both into the pool, and there was a decent chance that we would have escaped the worst of the damage. I trusted you, and it would have gotten rid of him.”

“I’m sorry I was so hard on you,” John apologized softly. “I hadn’t figured out, yet, that enjoying the game didn’t mean that you didn’t care. I was afraid you admired his cleverness too much, that having a worthy adversary was too much for you to give up.”

“That was partly what I wanted you to think,” Sherlock confessed. “Maintaining an image as a sociopath means that fewer people are inclined to try and get close; they see what they want to believe, which is all to the good since I can tolerate so few people on a continual basis. Not that you ever believed that diagnosis anyway,” he added perceptively, and John laughed, his voice muffled in Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“No, I didn’t,” he agreed. “You don’t process things the way other people do, that’s certain, but it’s part of what makes you so extraordinary – and I rather thought the opposite was true, that projecting sociopathic behavior and convincing yourself that you felt less than you actually did helped protect you from hurt, or at least made the hurt bearable.”

“It was a defense mechanism I learned very young,” Sherlock whispered, and John sat up to kiss him, following a gentle kiss on his mouth with kisses to both his eyelids and the tip of his nose.

“Do you know when I knew for certain that I loved you?” he whispered back. “I didn’t name it, not even to myself – I couldn’t – but I felt it. It was just at the end of the Baskerville case, the morning we left Dartmoor. You said you understood why the Cross Keys owners didn’t kill the dog, and I said you didn’t, and then I realized that you had locked me in the Baskerville lab.”

Sherlock opened his lips, looking sheepish, but John set a finger over his mouth before he could speak. “I was angry at the time, Sherlock, but the point is that I couldn’t _stay_ angry. You had locked me in a lab and completely terrified me in order to test a theory about some _sugar_ , and yet in some corner of my brain that wasn’t filled with frustration, I found it endearing that it was so hard for you to admit to being wrong. I also felt rather sad that you clearly felt you had to be perfect all the time in your conclusions. It’s no wonder, not when you grew up competing with Mycroft, but it saddened me nonetheless.”

“And then,” John continued with a smile, “you stood up and _joked_ with me. You shook off your irritation at being mistaken, you used that old line from _Flying Scud_ , and the only thing I could feel in that minute was ridiculous, giddy elation. I realized right then that I was the only person you did that with. We giggled at crime scenes and joked after cases, and I had never seen you do that with anyone else. For some inexplicable reason, you chose to share that beautiful part of yourself with _me_. I might not have been able to admit it, but that was the moment I knew I loved you and wanted everything with you.”

“You are one of the very few people with whom I ever felt safe enough to share those things,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Laughter makes one just as vulnerable as any other emotion, and normally I detest being vulnerable in front of others – but you laughed with me that very first night, and I felt safe. Safe and _seen_ for the first time in a long time.”

“That makes two of us, then,” John said, smiling as he echoed Sherlock’s comment from the night before, but his eyes were utterly serious instead of teasing, deep blue as he looked at Sherlock, his love written all over his features, and this time the detective leaned in to kiss John, his full mouth soft against John’s. John hummed contentedly in the back of his throat, then sighed as Sherlock’s tongue brushed over his lips. He opened his own mouth so that his tongue could meet Sherlock’s, and they spent several glorious minutes simply tasting each other.

When they both finally pulled back, mouths soft and kiss-swollen and smiling, John saw that Sherlock’s eyelids were drooping, despite his best efforts to keep them open, and he smiled, pressing a hand to Sherlock’s cheek.

“You should sleep, love,” he murmured. “I know we’ve only been up for a few hours, but your body needs the rest in order to heal. I need to call Mrs. Hudson and go over to Baker Street, and you can have a good sleep while I’m gone.”

“Bloody transport,” Sherlock muttered crossly, but the comment lacked its usual bite. John knew he really was exhausted, or he would have been protesting much more vehemently.

John shifted himself, preparing to climb carefully over Sherlock, but Sherlock gently caught his wrist.

“One more question, John, please?” Sherlock’s eyes were intent, and John could see how important it was to him; it was almost the same look he got just before fitting the final piece of a solution into a case, but with the specific, laser-like focus he reserved just for John.

“Of course,” John acquiesced, settling back down and rubbing soothing circles over Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb.

“You admitted you weren’t truly interested in creating relationships with any of the women you had dated while we were still at Baker Street,” Sherlock reminded him. “Why not? It can’t possibly have been because of me, not at first.”

“Ah,” John said with a warm smile. “I did promise to explain that, didn’t I?”

Sherlock scanned John’s face and the corner of his mouth turned up, amused and frustrated in equal measure. “What are you keeping from me, John Watson? You look as if you have the most delicious secret but want nothing more than to tell it.”

John laughed. “That’s true. I also can’t decide whether you’re going to be delighted or annoyed, or maybe a little bit of both.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, but he waited, and John laughed again, sensing the barely-restrained impatience that Sherlock was holding in.

“It _was_ because of you; I just didn’t see it at first,” he began. “The first time I met Mycroft, when he kidnapped me after you left me in Brixton, it alarmed me how much he knew about me – and he was able to tell that I missed the war, rather than being traumatized by it, that I missed feeling useful in a crisis and being someplace where my skills were needed, all from the fact that my left hand _wasn’t_ trembling.”

John had expected some derisive comment, but Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he said, “No matter how often or how greatly Mycroft and I disagree, his abilities are extraordinary. They always have been.”

John stared at him. “I feel like I should write that down, preserve it for posterity.”

“Don’t you dare; he might actually find out I said it, then,” Sherlock said with a quick grin.

John raised an eyebrow. “With the way he has this place wired, do you really think he didn’t hear that just now?”

Sherlock scowled, glancing up and around for the cameras that were surely hidden somewhere in the room, but he was unable to locate them from his position on the sofa. He settled for tipping his head back on the arm rest and calling out, “Don’t get used to it, Mycroft!”

The pair of them promptly dissolved into giggles, shoulders shaking, and the laughing fit lasted until Sherlock caught his breath with a pained gasp.

“Damn it. We really should try to avoid having you do that,” John said anxiously, moving off and away from Sherlock as much as he could, given the tight space he was in on the sofa.

Sherlock deliberately took a deep breath and then another, a tight line of pain marring his forehead. He kept breathing until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing pattern became more regular, and he smiled at John as the tension went out of his muscles. “It’s worth it.”

John smiled back and kissed him before resuming his explanation. “The other thing Mycroft said actually turned out to be more important, at least to me. He said, ‘When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already.’”

Sherlock _did_ snort at that. “And he thinks _I_ have a flair for the dramatic.”

“It’s a Holmes family trait, I think,” John said, once again tenderly brushing Sherlock’s curls out of his eyes. “And he wasn’t wrong. I had seen it, and God knows we saw enough of it afterward. But I didn’t realize until much later why it mattered, why walking a battlefield with you made me feel _whole_. Sherlock, right from that very first night, you were suddenly someone who was classified as part of my unit, someone I had to protect and keep alive at all costs. The difference was, when I was with you, I didn’t need a place of safety. Safe or not, the only place I wanted to be was next to you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock breathed, almost inaudibly, and it made John’s chest ache with a fierce happiness to see the realization on Sherlock’s face, the wonder in his eyes as he made the connections. “I . . . allowed you to integrate everything. The soldier, the doctor, the crack shot. The need for adrenaline. And we had become such close friends so quickly, even though neither of us trusts easily. You went looking for intimacy outside of the battlefield out of habit, and later because you thought I wasn’t interested, not because you really needed anything outside of us.”

“Yes,” John said simply. “And when I realized how much I cared for you, how much more I felt for you than friendship, it seemed ridiculous that I hadn’t realized it long before, hadn’t seen how and why it came about. You were my unit, and therefore my work, and so your Work became mine, your battlefield became mine – but you were also my life, my heart, the person I was closest to, the person I wanted to know absolutely everything about. You kept me safe, in every way, even in the middle of the battlefield – and my heart was yours long before I knew I had given it away,” John finished.

Sherlock drew him close again, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders as John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest. Only when Sherlock’s lips were pressed against John’s hair, and his nose buried in the soft gold-grey strands, did he respond.

“I said once that I would be lost without you. I had no idea how true that would become,” Sherlock whispered. “Before you, I never imagined that I could love someone so much.”

John smiled against him, sure that Sherlock would feel the movement in his facial muscles. “I know exactly how you feel.”

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John worries over Sherlock, sorts through some of his emotions, and finally goes home to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note** : Many thanks, as always, to WickedforGood13, my faithful and lovely beta and friend. Once again I must apologize for the delay; the academic calendar is murder on my writing time.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Five**

 

The two of them lay curled up together, arms wound tightly about each other, until John felt Sherlock’s breathing begin to slow and his hold begin to relax. He carefully eased himself away from Sherlock, whose eyes briefly fluttered open as he felt John get up. Sherlock caught at John’s hand with a slightly panicked grip, and John could see the fear in his eyes, which were bleary and only partially focused. John knew the action had come from Sherlock’s subconscious; his best friend was half-awake and moving on instinct. His heart ached.

“I’m here, love,” John said softly, brushing his lips over the detective’s forehead. “I’m just going to see Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be back before you know it. Sleep, Sherlock.”

“Careful,” Sherlock sighed, his grip loosening as he slid back into sleep. “Be careful. I love you.”

 “I love you, too,” John murmured, and he pulled a soft fleece blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over Sherlock’s thin form. He gazed at Sherlock’s sleeping face for a few moments, until he had to close his eyes against the tears that blurred his vision. He ran a gentle hand over Sherlock’s curls before straightening up, turning off the lamp next to the couch but leaving the fireplace on. He hoped it would help to keep Sherlock just a little warmer.

When he entered the elevator to take him downstairs, John leaned heavily against the wall. All at once he felt the emotional impact of the last twenty hours, and he could barely hold himself up. He took several shaky breaths, finally allowing tears to slide down his cheeks in an effort to simply process the overwhelming joy and sorrow that were flooding his mind and heart.

Sherlock. Sherlock was _alive_ and _breathing_ and _loved him_. John never would have believed, after that day at Bart’s, that he could be given such a gift ever again (even though he had begged for it at Sherlock’s grave and countless times afterward).

But his Sherlock ( _his_ Sherlock; it was amazing that he could say that now and mean it, think it without any of the grief or regret that had been there before) was also frighteningly thin, covered in injuries and scars, and exhausted to a degree that John wouldn’t have thought was possible for him. Sherlock seemed content enough, in fact happier and calmer than John could ever remember seeing him before, but John worried about all of the things that had happened to Sherlock in the past year. He had no way of knowing, yet, everything that Sherlock had been through or what kind of damage might have been left on his psyche because of it.

As he exited the elevator, back on the floor that held their suite, John almost ran straight into Willoughby, who appeared to have been waiting for the elevator to arrive.

“Willoughby! I’m so sorry,” John exclaimed, stepping back. He hastily swiped at his cheeks, attempting to smile at the butler. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“No harm done, Dr. Watson,” Willoughby answered. “I was just coming up to check on you both.” His kind eyes took in John’s face, and concern quickly replaced his amusement. “Is everything all right, sir? You look about done in, if I may say so. Is Master Sherlock . . .?”

Willoughby let the questions trail off inquiringly, and John nodded, trying to inject some professional briskness into his tone.

“He’s fine. Sleeping; he was exhausted. I was just coming down to phone Mrs. Hudson; I’ll need to start getting the flat sorted out.”

“Surely that can wait long enough to have a cup of tea, sir. You could use it, I think, and I can make it for you right now,” Willoughby said – coaxed, if butlers were actually capable of coaxing, John thought.

“That really isn’t necessary,” John protested as Willoughby turned and led the way back to the guest suite. “I can make it myself before I call Mrs. Hudson. And you must call me John, Willoughby, really; ‘sir’ makes me feel like I’m back in the army.”

“Nonsense,” Willoughby returned. “Master Sherlock would be put out if he thought I wasn’t taking care of you,” he said, his eyes twinkling at the understatement, “and you can’t take care of him if no one is looking after you. A cup of tea is the least I can do. It’s also more than my job’s worth to call you anything but ‘sir’ or ‘Dr. Watson’ where Mr. Holmes can hear.”

John shook his head with a smile. “Somehow I doubt that, Willoughby. Sherlock is obviously very fond of you, and I can’t imagine Mycroft is any less so.”

“Best not to take chances,” Willoughby said, turning and winking at John as he turned the doorknob of the suite. “And if I really wanted to remind you of the army, sir, I’d start calling you ‘Captain.’”

“Oh, please don’t,” John said, rolling his eyes, but he conceded the point with a smile as Willoughby moved to the small kitchen and set the kettle to boiling. With practiced ease, Willoughby pulled out a large mug (rather larger than the ones he used at Baker Street, John noticed), a plate, and a package of biscuits, then quickly pinched tea leaves into a diffuser. As the water boiled, Willoughby deftly took the pot from its hotplate and poured, then turned around and placed both tea and biscuits in front of John.

“Thank you,” John said gratefully.

“You’re very welcome,” Willoughby said, watching him thoughtfully. “Are _you_ all right, Dr. Watson?”

John blinked. He had asked the same thing of Sherlock just hours ago, but he hadn’t bothered to ask himself. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head and laughing slightly.

“I have no idea,” he confessed. “Most of me feels like I could never be unhappy again. Sherlock is alive. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. And apparently we . . .” he trailed off, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

“. . . Love each other very much?” Willoughby filled in gently. His gaze was solemn but approving, and John was reassured by the acceptance he saw in the older man’s face. He nodded.

“Yes. Very much,” he said, his voice going a bit raspy at the end. He took a drink, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. “I’m so incredibly grateful that he’s alive and that he’s here. When he – when I thought he died, part of me died, too, and suddenly I have all of myself back, and all of him as well. It’s . . . overwhelming and incredible. But I look at him and see how exhausted he is, how hurt he’s been, how much he’s had to do to keep us all safe, and I’m furious with everyone who had the audacity to hurt him, furious with Moriarty for making him go to such extremes, furious at myself for not seeing what was happening. Completely irrational, I know, but there it is,” John finished, taking another swig of his tea.

Willoughby smiled. “Not irrational, Dr. Watson – protective. Of course you want to protect him, just as he protected you – that always goes both ways when one is in love. But you mustn’t blame yourself for the events of that day. Sherlock had to fool _everyone_ in order to succeed, in order to save the three of you – and I am sure I do not need to tell you how determined he can be, once he has decided on a course of action. He could not convince you that he was a fake, but he managed the rest because he loved you, because he wanted to save your life.  Place the blame for all of the pain where it belongs, with that madman who was on the roof with him.”

John nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. “Moriarty was a bastard; believe me when I tell you that I don’t need any incentive to hate him or to blame him for what he did to Sherlock. I just wish that I could have known, that I could have helped Sherlock somehow.” 

“I wish you could have, too,” Willoughby said unexpectedly. John raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. The butler smiled, in a way that was almost as grim as John’s face had been a moment before. “I’m sure it would have been helpful for him to have you assisting him and backing him up. Mr. Holmes hasn’t told me what Master Sherlock had to do while he was away, and I won’t ask, but all I have to do is look at Sherlock to know how bad it was. If there’s anything I know by now about the Holmes brothers, it’s not to ask about anything when they don’t volunteer information.”

“I know. God, I know,” John said, running his hands through his hair. “We’ve been all over that, and I understand why he felt he had to do it – I hate it, but I understand it. I still feel horribly guilty, though. It’s just – he did it for me, Willoughby. For Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and _me_. What am I meant to do with that? How can I possibly make it up to him?”

“Perhaps you do not have to do anything except what you already have done – love him,” Willoughby answered softly. “Love him, and let him love you. It is – extraordinary, what you have done for him already, and trust me when I tell you that there is _nothing_ he needs, Dr. Watson, more than he needs to be loved.”

John’s eyebrows went up again, and Willoughby’s smile was easier this time, fond, though he looked down at the counter as he spoke.

“He was an adorable child,” Willoughby said, almost to himself. “I was barely an adult, and he was such an inquisitive little soul, so intelligent. He needed someone he could think of as a friend.” He looked up then, his eyes sad. “But the world is not kind to geniuses, Dr. Watson.”

“No,” John agreed.

The two men looked at each other in silent, mutual understanding, and John gave a quick, reassuring nod. “Thank you, Willoughby,” he said quietly, and he knew the butler understood that it was meant for more than just the tea.

Willoughby gave him another smile. “Don’t mention it, Dr. Watson.”

John stood and checked his watch as Willoughby began to clear away the tea things. “I really should call Mrs. Hudson. And Sarah – I hadn’t even thought of her until this minute. I’m not going to be able to work my shift on Monday. God knows what I’m going to tell her; I can’t tell her about Sherlock yet.”

“I’m sure Miss Sawyer will understand once she does know the truth,” Willoughby said. “And it is Saturday; at least you are giving her some notice.”

John looked at him inquiringly, then shook his head. “Nope. I don’t even _want_ to know how you know about Sarah.”

Willoughby chuckled. “The advantage, sir, of being a butler. One can overhear almost anything.”

John gave a genuine laugh as he stood up. “I would imagine, especially in this house.” He went into the living room as Willoughby finished cleaning in the kitchen, grabbing his mobile phone and dialing Sarah’s number. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sarah, how are you?” John greeted her.

“Hi, John; I’m well,” she answered cheerfully. “Just finished lunch with my mum, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t meant to interrupt,” John apologized, chagrined.

“No, it’s no problem; we’re going to go shopping in a bit, but we’re still finishing coffee. How can I help you?” Sarah asked.

“Listen, um, I was hoping that I might be able to have Monday off? I know it’s short notice, but I’ve had a situation come up, and I would really appreciate it,” John said hesitantly.

Sarah hummed thoughtfully. “I think we could manage that. Andy has been wanting some more hours, and you could use a break, John. You’ve not taken a day off in a year, and you’ve accrued a ridiculous amount of comp time with all of the extra shifts you’ve worked. I’ll call Andy as soon as we hang up.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” John said fervently. “You’re a star.”

Sarah laughed. “Not a problem. I do what I can.” She paused, and a note of concern had crept into her voice when she spoke again. “Is everything all right, John?”

“It is – or it will be,” John reassured her. “I can’t say much right now, but I’ll treat you to lunch later this week and tell you the whole story, yeah?”

“That would be nice,” Sarah replied, and John could hear her smile. “Least you could do, when your amazing boss gave you the day off.”

“Absolutely,” John replied cheekily. “I’ll see you Tuesday, then.”

“See you then,” Sarah answered, and they hung up.

John let out a breath when their call was disconnected. It had been easier than he thought, and he was grateful that Sarah was so understanding about his request. She had been a good friend to him during the last year, and John figured she deserved to hear about Sherlock from him, rather than hearing the story when the media finally got wind of Sherlock’s return.

“Right,” he murmured to himself. “Now for Mrs. Hudson.”

He dialed again and waited.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” John said happily.

His former landlady paused infinitesimally, startled, but then, “Hello, John dear,” she said, her voice brighter. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m rather hoping that you still have 221B available,” John said, chewing his lip in trepidation. He didn’t think she had rented it, but it had been a long time, and surely she needed the income . . .

Mrs. Hudson was quiet for what seemed like an age, though John knew it couldn’t have been more than a minute, but when she spoke her voice was tremulous with happiness. “Really?”

“Really,” John confirmed, a smile blooming on his features as he heard how glad she sounded. He really had stayed away too long – and if she sounded like this simply from the idea of John moving back, he couldn’t imagine what her reaction would be when she saw Sherlock. “I think it’s about time I came home, don’t you?”

Mrs. Hudson laughed, sounding almost giddy, before she switched abruptly into the mother hen mode John was so used to – and found he had missed profoundly.

“It certainly is, young man! I was beginning to think you would never come to your senses,” she scolded him kindly. “You can come by whenever you like; I didn’t have any plans today except cleaning and going to dinner with Mrs. Turner.”

John grinned. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

* * *

 

Before he left Knightsbridge, John sought out Willoughby and entreated him to periodically check on Sherlock, which the kind butler swiftly assured John he would have done anyway. It was difficult for John to leave, but he knew Willoughby would take excellent care of Sherlock, should the detective need anything. He occupied himself on the cab ride to Baker Street by memorizing the rather lengthy code for Mycroft’s house and then deleting it from his phone, as per Anthea’s instructions. At least it kept him from worrying.

When John finally stepped from the cab and onto the sidewalk in front of 221B, he simply stood for a moment and took in the familiar door with its brass knocker and black paint, Speedy’s café next door with what was clearly a new burgundy awning, and the familiar bustle and traffic of Baker Street that was somehow soothing rather than irritating. It was simply home, and now that he knew Sherlock would be here to occupy it with him, there was nowhere else John would rather be.

John took a long breath, trying to school his features into some semblance of calm; it wouldn’t do to seem overly happy and have Mrs. Hudson get suspicious before he and Mycroft could tell her about Sherlock together. He was bursting at the seams with his joy over Sherlock, but he had to maintain the fiction that Sherlock was dead for just a few days more.

He settled his features into what he hoped was a serene smile and walked up to the door, knocking firmly with the knocker. The door opened almost immediately, and Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a surprisingly strong embrace for such a small woman.

“John Watson! Why didn’t you come in?” she exclaimed. “It’s not as if I ever asked for your key back, is it? Waiting out here as though you were a stranger!”

John chuckled and returned the hug, brushing a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “I’ve missed you too, Mrs. Hudson.”

“It will be lovely to have you back, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, letting go and ushering him into the foyer. “It hasn’t been the same here without you, that’s all. Even Mrs. Turner misses you; she asks about you all the time.”

Feeling like a cad for lying to Mrs. Hudson even a little bit, John tried to keep up appearances by addressing the rent. “I don’t know that I can pay you what Sherlock and I were paying together before,” he started. “If you really need to rent the flat for income, Mrs. Hudson, I can. . . .”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson said briskly. “Don’t you worry about it, John. I paid the mortgage off on this building a few years ago, and anything I get in rent goes toward maintenance and repairs and helps build up my medical and travel funds for when I need them. When Sherlock – ” she hesitated, but John nodded, encouraging her to continue, “ – when Sherlock ensured that my husband was convicted, for a number of terrible things, he also contrived to have that awful man sign over enough assets  to me – _legal_ assets, mind you, not the illegal ones – that I could fully buy this building and have a decent income.”

“How on earth did Sherlock manage that?” John asked in amazement.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, smiling even as she wiped tears away. “I never asked. He did manage it, and that was enough for me. Come upstairs, dear, and we’ll see what needs doing in the flat.”

As he followed Mrs. Hudson up the achingly familiar seventeen stairs, John promised himself that he would get Sherlock to tell him the story of Mrs. Hudson’s former husband, what the man had been convicted of, and what exactly the detective had done to ensure that his surrogate mother had a roof over her head and a decent income. Even more importantly, he wanted to know _why_ Sherlock had done it in the first place – what had been the circumstances under which he and Mrs. Hudson had met, and how had Sherlock become so firmly attached to her?

Mrs. Hudson stopped ahead of him to unlock the door to the flat, and as they both crossed the threshold, John suddenly found that maintaining his solemnity was not a hard task at all.

The flat had barely been touched.

John remembered the day he had left, though in his memory it was like seeing it through a fog; he had packed methodically while ruthlessly shutting down his emotions, and he had left with hardly a backward glance, only staying long enough to give Mrs. Hudson a long hug and reassure her that he would come visit.

Now, it was as though he had been holding his breath underwater and had finally broken the surface, gasping in desperately needed oxygen while his lungs burned.

He was not gasping out loud, but the ache in his chest, the sensation of not being able to breathe properly, was very real.

“I didn’t have the heart to move or change much,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, looking around. “I kept hoping you would come back, and it seemed wrong to . . . _eradicate_ him, the poor dear.”

The chaos that had been their living space was still there, the piles of papers, the myriad of books on the shelves that were in some system only Sherlock truly understood, the leather couch that had been Sherlock’s almost constant thinking spot,  the two chairs that had been theirs still in front of the fireplace. There was dust, but it was not very thick, indicating that Mrs. Hudson had come up once in a while to hoover and clean. There were also no clothes or coats lying about; those would still be in storage, wherever Mycroft and Anthea had whisked them to.

John moved wordlessly to the entrance to the kitchen, and the pain in his chest eased a bit; differences were more noticeable here. He had known Mrs. Hudson had donated Sherlock’s lab equipment, so the table was clear and clean. All of the dishes were in their places in the cupboards, instead of piled in the sink or on the counters. He knew, too, that the fridge would be empty, with no bags of thumbs or heads dripping saliva.

In one way, it was touching that Mrs. Hudson had preserved everything the way she had, as if the flat were simply waiting for Sherlock and John to walk back into it; in another way, it was too much like being in a tomb, as if the flat was as lifeless as John had thought Sherlock to be less than a day ago.

John breathed out, and he must have made some sound, for one look at his face was enough for Mrs. Hudson to make a noise of distressed sympathy and fold him into a hug.

“I’m all right, Mrs. Hudson,” John soothed her. “It’s just . . . a bit of a shock, being back. It still feels like he – like we never left.”

“I hoped that would help, rather than make everything worse,” Mrs. Hudson admitted. “It is more different than it looks on the surface, John – the bedrooms are practically empty, now, and of course I couldn’t keep anything perishable or toxic in the flat, and there were all the things Mycroft took away. Still, I liked coming up here, when I came up to clean – it was comforting to feel like there was a bit of you both still here.”

John kissed the top of her head and mentally shook himself in an attempt to focus. “Well, it looks like we’ll need to do some dusting and cleaning in the kitchen and living room, and I suppose I’ll have to make up one of the beds. I hadn’t thought about what to do with the second bedroom, since I was assuming I would have to get a flatmate at some point. I’ll have to ponder that.” John felt another flash of guilt at withholding the truth from Mrs. Hudson, but it was the truth as far as it went – he _had_ thought he would have to get another flatmate if he came back to Baker St., and Mrs. Hudson would not remain ignorant for much longer. He could console himself with that.

“I’d like to organize some of the papers,” he continued aloud. “Sherlock had a system of a sort, and some of those piles might help me write up some of our old cases, ones I never got around to. I can sort through the books on the shelves and see what I’d like to keep as well. Maybe we can use the upstairs bedroom to organize things and clear the surfaces off down here.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mrs. Hudson said approvingly. “Why don’t you go see what’s left up there, see if there are any of your old things that you need, and I’ll go get some cleaners and polish.” She bustled through the door and down the stairs, and John went up the stairs to his old room, trepidation and nervousness roiling in his stomach.

It wasn’t as bad as he had feared. Years in the army had taught him to keep his belongings minimal, and he had taken three-quarters of what he owned with him when he moved to the bedsit. The bedroom was nearly empty, bar the clothing he knew he had left in the wardrobe. The bed had long ago been stripped, making the room look much more impersonal. There were still some of his novels stacked on the shelves, but he had read all of them before leaving. He might donate them to the library; the only books he made sure to keep were his medical texts and journals.

John took in the room carefully, considering its space and proportions and the small bathroom attached to it. He began to measure in his head, thinking about shelves and cupboards and table space, and after a few minutes he was satisfied that his mental map could be realized. For now, the bed and floor were clear and could be used for the piles of papers and extra books that needed to be moved.

John turned and clattered down the stairs, finding Mrs. Hudson ensconced in the living room and rapidly transferring piles onto the sofa. She had covered her hands in rubber gloves, and John took the second pair she offered with a smile before he carefully put three of the stacks together and carried them upstairs, separating them on the bed until he could go through them.

John and Mrs. Hudson worked in tandem for the next couple of hours, moving all of the piles off of the surfaces in the living room, dusting the furniture, cleaning the mirror over the fireplace and the glass-fronts cupboards in the kitchen, the kitchen sink and counters and the interior of the refrigerator, and running the vacuum over the carpet. Mrs. Hudson found some leather cleaner and had a vigorous go at the couch; when she was done, John was sure it had not been so clean since it was brand new.

The pair of them contemplated their work when they were done and smiled at each other in satisfaction.

“It’s cleaner than I think it’s been in ages,” Mrs. Hudson said, a trifle smugly.

John laughed. “Too right. We’ll have to see if I can keep it this way. Of course, there’s all the stuff upstairs to sort through yet, and I’ll have to start bringing my things back. I have the start of a plan for that upstairs room, too. Can I come again tomorrow afternoon?”

“You can stop asking my permission right this minute!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, swatting at his forearm in pretend irritation. “You have a key and this is your home; you can be here whenever you like.” She spoiled the effect of her reprimand with a smile, and John gave her another hug and kiss before leaving, eager to make his way back to Knightsbridge and Sherlock.

* * *

 

When John entered Mycroft’s home again, the smells filling the house were incredible, and John knew that dinner would be announced fairly soon. His stomach growled with hunger after his afternoon of work, and he hurried up the stairs. He wanted to see Sherlock and make sure his best friend was still taking care of himself, and he desperately needed to shower.

He approached the guest suite with a spring in his step, and when he entered he found Sherlock lying on the sofa, engrossed in a book. At some point the detective had changed from his pajamas to a white dress shirt and charcoal trousers, although he was still barefoot, and John stared for a moment before making his way over and running a hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“Afternoon,” he said softly, and Sherlock hummed absently in response, reaching up with one hand and squeezing John’s wrist in greeting. John turned his head so that he could see the spine of the book.

“ _War and Peace_?” he said in disbelief. “Since when do you read Tolstoy?”

Sherlock looked up, and his eyes were full of amusement. “It seemed appropriate, considering what the last year has been like. I am capable of appreciating literature, John; I just don’t usually take the time.”

“I never thought you weren’t, but Tolstoy seems like the kind of thing that would be deleted immediately.”

“Not necessarily; not if I find it useful in some way,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Even if I don’t, I can still enjoy the experience of reading it and then delete the unimportant aspects of it when space becomes necessary. So far, it’s quite interesting from a philosophical standpoint.”

John shook his head. “Better you than me. I need to shower. Do you happen to know if your brother is joining us this evening?”

“He has been at dinner every night since I appeared at his door on Wednesday, which has to be some kind of record,” Sherlock said, the words less sharp than usual. “We haven’t had so many meals together since we were children. If I cared about the state of world politics, I’m sure I would be trembling at the thought of what Anthea has had to rearrange in order to ensure his presence for an hour.”

“Well, now she’s complying with my instructions to get Mycroft healthy, as well as Mycroft’s request to make sure he sees you, so I’d say it’s a safe bet that he’ll be here,” John said. “Am I right in thinking that Wednesday involved sleeping and IV bags and hydration, and Thursday was mostly debriefing Mycroft on what you’ve done?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said approvingly. His face darkened at the thought of the debriefing and the two days he had spent in London without John. “I’ve never been so impatient in all my life, and that is saying something. Mycroft’s questions were intolerable.”

“For more reasons than one, I imagine,” John said softly. Re-living a year’s worth of secrets and violence in the space of hours could not have been easy, and Mycroft would have been trying to adapt to seeing his brother in person after a year, a fake burial, and who knew how many close calls. He would not have been nearly as efficient as usual; even Mycroft’s compartmentalization skills could only be stretched so far.  “I know you had Mycroft come and get me as soon as you could, Sherlock; don’t fret. I know you, and I saw you when I first arrived at the Diogenes. You couldn’t have been in any fit state to function when you got here.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed quietly. “I very much was not.”

John leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I love you,” he murmured. “And you are gorgeous; have I mentioned that today?”

As John had hoped, that was enough to drive the sadness from Sherlock’s eyes; the detective’s face became mischievous again. “I have a particular fondness for this suit and shirt; I was wearing it the day of our first case.”

John drank in the sight of Sherlock again, linking the old memories with the clothes in front of him. “You were. I never would have thought of it.” He kissed Sherlock a second time with more fierceness. “God, no wonder I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “As if you even noticed at the time.”

“Of course I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, I didn’t. You’re right. I was too busy being completely in awe of your deductions,” John parried with a grin.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up. “That isn’t at all fair. I should be insulted that you didn’t notice, but I can’t even be angry at you for it because you _were_ admiring my intelligence, and I knew you were.”

“Well, no one said I had to fight fair. You certainly don’t,” John said, still smiling.

“Of course not. Where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock retorted. “And anyway, if I did, you would never have come back after Mycroft kidnapped you.”

“True enough. Pulling me in with potential danger was hardly fair,” John agreed. He caught sight of the time and started. “I’ll be right back; I _have_ to shower. I can _not_ go down to dinner like this; Mycroft would never let me hear the end of it, and I do not like being at a disadvantage when your brother is in the room.”

“Well, _that_ feeling is certainly mutual,” Sherlock murmured irrepressibly as John dashed for the bathroom. “Mrs. Hudson?” he called out, making it a question.

“She’s fine,” John called back as he was rummaging in dresser drawers. “Ecstatic that I’m moving back in, in fact – but she misses you,” he added gently, sticking his head back out into the living room after he came back down the hall. “Being in the flat was a bit difficult at first, honestly; it had hardly been touched except for the lab equipment, my clothes, and yours.”

Sherlock gave him a narrow-eyed look, no doubt seeing the traces of John’s emotional turmoil. His probing gaze turned into a stare that plainly said, _‘We will be talking about this later,’_ and John gave him a quick nod before retreating and jumping into the shower.

Ten minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed, in clean clothes, and with damp but orderly hair. Sherlock had not moved, and just as John was about to go over to him, there was a quick knock on the door. Willoughby entered, his arms full of manila file folders, and he set the stack on the coffee table.

“Compliments of your brother, Master Sherlock,” he said. “I believe these are some of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s cold cases. You asked for them, did you not?”

“Ah,” Sherlock said in delight, carefully sitting up and contemplating the stack. “This was really John’s plan, Willoughby. He knows I can’t bear boredom, and this way I can help Lestrade and tell him I am alive at the same time. It should be quite entertaining.”

Willoughby shook his head in disapproval, but John could see the twitching of his lips that gave away his amusement. “Dinner will be served momentarily, Master Sherlock, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes arrived just a minute or two ago. He said he would be right down, as soon as he had a chance to change his shirt.”

Sherlock nodded. “We’d better go down then; Mycroft does so hate to be kept waiting,” he said with a roll of his eyes, the customary bite back in his tone. He stood gingerly and offered his arm to John, his eyes turning warm with memory and affection. “Dinner?” he asked, and once again John heard the echo of their first case, the gratitude in Sherlock’s face and voice for his well-timed shot and free offer of friendship, overlaid with the new, brilliant love and tenderness that John was still getting used to seeing.

“Starving,” John answered, unable to control his grin, and the two of them made their way to the dining room.

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John learn new information from Mycroft, and Sherlock ends up explaining his past with Victor Trevor and Sebastian Wilkes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note** : I very much wanted to get this chapter finished before S3 airs over here in the States. Many thanks, as always, to WickedforGood13, my faithful and lovely beta and friend. Since the lovely little prequel episode, “Many Happy Returns,” came out on Christmas Eve, I’ve incorporated some of the new perspective on Anderson into this chapter and the next. I was so intrigued by his turnaround regarding Sherlock! (John gets it a little bit wrong at first, though. Don’t be shocked; there’s always something.) I’ve also played, just a bit, with the events in “The Adventure of the Gloria Scott” in order to fill in a little of Sherlock’s past.
> 
> The story could probably end here – the end of this chapter feels like an ending of sorts – and yet it doesn’t. Greg and Molly appear in the next chapter; I’ve already written nearly 3,000 words of Greg, and it’s going to be interesting to see Molly’s reaction to all of this as well.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Six**

 

The dining room of Mycroft’s home was formal but comfortable, and Willoughby had set three places at one end, so that the three dinner companions were all close to one another and able to speak and pass dishes without any extra effort. Willoughby had also dimmed the lights and set candles on the table, and John saw when they entered that Mycroft’s eyes looked tired; he had probably been staring at computer screens for too long that day. Trust Willoughby to notice such small details; it was a kind of caring that John was familiar with. Not only had Willoughby spent most of his life around the Holmes family, but also he made it his business to take care of both Holmes brothers. Acting to alleviate Mycroft’s optical fatigue without any commentary was exactly the sort of thing John might have done as a doctor; Willoughby did it as a longtime caretaker.

“Good evening, Mycroft,” John greeted the elder Holmes as he and Sherlock strolled into the dining room. The three of them took their seats; Willoughby had wisely foreseen that Sherlock and John would want to sit together, and had put them to one side of Mycroft, who sat at the head of the table.

“Good evening, John. Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded at his brother.

Sherlock acknowledged the greeting with a quick nod of his own. “Mycroft. I plan to get started on Lestrade’s files after dinner.”

Mycroft’s smile was unexpected. He so rarely smiled about anything (sincerely, at least) that the expression always took John by surprise. “It was no trouble at all. It was probably the only real enjoyment I had today; you should have seen Sergeant McKenzie’s expression when I texted her the order to borrow the files. She was delighted by the subterfuge.”

“Sergeant McKenzie?” John questioned curiously. “Who is she?”

“A new member of Lestrade’s team,” Mycroft answered smoothly. “She was put in place shortly after Sherlock’s . . . disappearance.”

John looked up sharply, the captain in him making an abrupt mental entrance as he thought about the implications of that. “She’s one of yours?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft admitted, his eyes serious. “You do not suppose that I would leave Inspector Lestrade unprotected, John? Sergeant McKenzie and her partner, forensic pathologist Huntington, are highly trained operatives. They both carry the requisite qualifications for Scotland Yard, as well as their government training. Once Inspector Lestrade was reinstated, he requested new team members. Putting McKenzie and Huntington in place was child’s play.”

John threw a glance at Sherlock; the detective was listening avidly. Clearly this was information he had not heard before – and what Mycroft _didn’t_ say was just as significant as what he did say. Anderson and Donovan were no longer working directly under Lestrade, and the DI had wanted it that way.

“Does Lestrade know who they are?” John asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

“No. My intent was to protect him, and that is significantly more problematic when a subject knows they are being watched,” Mycroft answered, throwing a disgruntled look at Sherlock. The detective’s lips twitched upward in a smirk.

“I have also had occasional surveillance on Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft continued. “She is much easier to keep track of, as her routine is fairly steady. I only had to have someone watch her when there were any major deviations from the norm; the CCTV footage was more than adequate otherwise.”

“Well, I’m grateful you’ve been keeping an eye on them,” John said. “I knew you were following me, but I figured that was just your need to be an omniscient god making itself known.”

John honestly couldn’t be bothered to care about Mycroft’s bodyguards those first few months after Sherlock’s apparent death, and he knew that all three of them were aware of that, but he wasn’t about to admit it aloud. As long as Mycroft’s men had kept their distance, he had deliberately ignored them.

Mycroft smirked this time, his amusement showing through at John’s retort. “What else could I have done? It would have been far worse for everyone concerned if any harm had come to you while Sherlock was away. After the lengths he had gone to in order to protect you, I was not about to allow his sacrifice to become a moot point.”

John nodded, his hand automatically reaching for Sherlock’s under the table. Sherlock’s face was impassive, but his grip around John’s fingers was almost painful.

“Thank you for keeping him safe,” Sherlock murmured, and John went still in surprise. It was unheard of for Sherlock to thank his brother for anything, and the fact that he was doing so now was a testament to both his love for John and – perhaps – how much things had changed between the brothers in the past year.

Mycroft nodded as he locked gazes with his brother, and John thought that it might be the first completely sincere (if silent) exchange he had seen between them.

In the next moment, Mycroft glanced down at his watch and stood from the table.

“I am sorry, but I must go,” he apologized, grimacing. “Duty calls.”

“Goodnight, Mycroft,” John said amiably. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do try not to start a war overnight, Mycroft; we would be denied the pleasure of your company,” Sherlock said, and the tone was sarcastic but not hostile; there was just enough humor in the detective’s voice that it approached teasing.

John thought he might have to pick his jaw up from the table.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, but John saw the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed.”

Mycroft swept out of the room, and John promptly turned to Sherlock and kissed him soundly. Sherlock was wide-eyed when they broke apart.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what exactly was that for?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“You were almost nice to your brother,” John said with a grin. “You two were almost civil to each other. I never thought I would see it, and I love you for making that tiny bit of effort.”

“Well, if being ‘almost nice’ to Mycroft gets that reaction, I might have to engage in it more often,” Sherlock answered. “Though I wouldn’t count on it happening too frequently; my tolerance for him still has its limits.”

John shook his head, but he still couldn’t stop smiling. He didn’t really have a leg to stand on in this area, since he and Harry probably never would get along, but the little moment just past was the closest he had ever seen the Holmes brothers come to behaving like _normal_ brothers, and it might be the closest they would ever come. It was a breath of fresh air.

The two of them ate dessert (delicious crème brulée provided by the indefatigable Willoughby) and then headed back upstairs. Sherlock carefully settled himself on the sofa and began reading through Lestrade’s case files. John moved to the kitchen to make tea and smiled quietly to himself as he pulled down two mugs.

“John, could you bring me a pen when you come back in?” Sherlock called.

That brought a true grin to John’s face, and as he waited for the tea to steep, he went over to the desk to find a pen. He pulled open the shallow middle drawer, thinking that it was the most likely place for writing implements, and found three expensive fountain pens sitting in a tray.

“Fountain pens. Of course,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He brought one of the pens back to the kitchen and pulled the diffusers out of the mugs before taking everything to the living room. He carefully set the tea down on the coffee table before handing the pen to Sherlock.

“You _asked_ instead of demanding,” John teased him. “I might pass out from shock.”

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes alight with humor. “I’ll be sure to get you a blanket.”

John laughed and went over to the bookcases to hunt for a novel. He decided on what looked like a first edition of _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_ and settled comfortably next to Sherlock on the sofa. The pair of them were silent for a few minutes as John read his first chapter and as Sherlock wrote notes in the margin of one of the case files, but then Sherlock broke the silence unexpectedly.

“While I was . . . away, there were times when all I could think about were the millions of ways I had taken you for granted,” he said, so quietly that John had to lean closer to hear him. “They were made all the more glaring and obvious by your absence and the possibility that I would fail, that I would not be able to save you. I promised myself that if I came home and you ever consented to speak to me again, I would try to be more . . . appreciative.”

John was silent for a moment, too touched and overwhelmed to find words easily. There was also a worry at the back of his mind that would not be banished once it presented itself.

“Sherlock,” he finally said, laying a hand on the detective’s forearm, “that’s . . . extraordinary, coming from you, but I hope you know that I don’t want or need you to be different simply because we are together. I want you to be yourself; I fell in love with the person you are.”

“And if I want to be different?” Sherlock asked harshly, turning suddenly so that his eyes were boring into John’s. “If I _am_ different? You’ve already noticed it. I am not precisely the man you knew a year ago, John, and I would not insult you by suggesting that you are exactly the same John Watson I knew when I left. Are you going to be able to accept the changes in me, or are you really expecting me to fit in exactly the same space as I did before?”

Just like that, all of their easy, sweet intimacy was gone, and John’s mind reeled at the abruptness of the transformation. Sherlock was coiled as if ready to spring up from his seat, but he was also curled in on himself, his shoulders hunched forward and his muscles tense. His voice had been cutting, as fierce and superior as it used to be when he was dealing with Donovan or Anderson. However, John had long ago recognized that Sherlock only turned on _him,_ John, this way when he was feeling particularly vulnerable and defensive – so what was he defending?

John resisted the urge to pull away, as he had done so many times in the past when Sherlock had upset him. He silently sorted through Sherlock’s sentences, discarding the arrogance and superiority to find the fear beneath.

_Is this over before it starts? Are you going to refuse to acknowledge what we are? Are you going to force me to hide how much I love you? To hide how loving you has changed me?_

John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as it all clicked in his mind. He carefully reached out and took Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“Sherlock, no,” he said gently. “I would never want you to fill the same space you did before. I’m _not_ the person I was a year ago; if I was, I never would have kissed you. I never would have told you I love you; I might never have _realized_ I love you. For those things alone, I would never want to go back to how we were. I spent a year regretting that you never knew how much I loved you or how proud I was to be your friend, and I am even prouder now to be yours. I hope neither of us ever feels we have to hide that. All I was trying to say is that I don’t want you to behave differently because you feel you _have_ to; if you _want_ to, that’s something else entirely.”

Sherlock seemed to read the reassurance in John’s expression, and he nodded slightly, closing his eyes and leaning into John’s hands, but in the next moment he was on his feet and pacing distractedly, tugging at his curls in agitation.

“Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong,” he muttered. “John, you know how terrible I am at reading emotional cues. I am going to get these sorts of things wrong and anger you, and you will end up hating me for it. ”

“What? Sherlock, one misunderstanding does not constitute a pattern,” John said calmly, but his voice betrayed his concern over the detective’s distress. “I could never hate you. If being shot at, kidnapped, mistaken for you, drugged by you, and utterly fooled by your fake death did not make me hate you, I doubt anything ever can.”

Sherlock continued to pace, silent now, and John could almost feel his emotional and mental retreat. He stood, planting himself in the detective’s path and taking his hands.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “Where is this coming from?”

Sherlock searched his face again for a moment, looking, John thought, for additional confirmation of John’s affection, before simply stepping closer to John and leaning his head on John’s shoulder. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, John pulled them both back to the couch. He lay down and gestured for Sherlock to join him, and Sherlock eased himself down next to John, immediately tucking his head into John’s shoulder. John began to comb his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, and he felt some of the stress leaving Sherlock’s body almost instantly.

“Who asked you to hide?” John whispered. He was fairly sure that _some_ previous experience with someone else had caused Sherlock to jump to the conclusions he had just made, and it made him incredibly angry and terribly sad all at once.

Sherlock was silent for a long time, but finally he sighed, both pain and resignation evident in the sound.

“Victor Trevor,” he said flatly. “He was a classmate of mine at university and probably the closest thing I had to a friend before you.”

“You were . . . involved with him?” John asked cautiously, knowing that Sherlock’s story might answer some of his earlier questions about Sherlock’s emotional and sexual history, but not wanting to push him into confidences he wasn’t ready to give.

Sherlock huffed. “In a manner of speaking,” he said disdainfully. His voice mellowed just a little, however, as he began to explain. “Victor and I were actually friends, at first; he was a brilliant chemist as well as a very fine business mind, and we attended the same chemistry lectures. We found we had a common interest in science, and he was as interested in my deductions as I was in his attempts to create useful and non-toxic chemical substances. He wasn’t put off by my anti-social nature; in fact, it apparently suited him. He was a social person, but he seemed to like the quiet we created when we studied together. I don’t know if he simply needed the relief from all of his other friends and social engagements, or if he found me genuinely interesting. I thought he did, at the time,” Sherlock added, some of the bitterness returning to his voice along with some of the tension in his muscles.

“What happened?" John queried, continuing his stroking of Sherlock’s hair.

“We were – together, I suppose, if you want to call it that,” Sherlock said, his voice a bit prickly and exasperated at the lack of precision in the term. “We studied together, had tea and kissed and watched films when we were tired of studying. We never acknowledged any of it in public, though – I detested university parties, so we were never together in a large group. Victor often went to social events alone, which was good for his business connections, and I was grateful that I didn’t have to suffer through them. Victor said, at the time, that he was terrified of his father finding out, which I could believe once I had met the man.”

“You met his family?” John said curiously. It didn’t seem logical that a young man trying to hide a gay relationship would bring his boyfriend home to his parents.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “In fact, Victor’s father was really my first case after Carl Powers. Victor asked me to his family home during the summer holidays, and I spent what was mostly a pleasant month at the Trevor family estate in Norfolk. I left, however, after making Victor’s father uncomfortable with some of my deductions – Victor was upset with me, and I could see that I was not really welcome any longer, so I went back home for almost two months and conducted experiments. I did not hear from Victor again until he called me, begging me to come back and look into a most curious state of affairs. His father had had a stroke after receiving a mysterious letter, and a strange ‘old friend’ had taken up employment at the house shortly after my departure.”

Sherlock sighed again. “To make a long story short, John, I discovered that Mr. Trevor had embezzled a great deal of money from a company many years before and had managed to disappear under an assumed name. His original name had been James Armitage. The strange man who came to the house had been his partner in crime, David Hudson. Hudson was the only other person who knew the truth of Trevor’s involvement in the crime. He had blackmailed Victor’s father and threatened to expose him, resulting in Mr. Trevor’s heart attack. Mr. Trevor died just after I returned, and Victor was grief-stricken. Once I unearthed everything that had happened, Victor wanted nothing to do with me. He was thankful, in a way, for the truth, but it was a truth that left him the head of an almost penniless family, a situation he spent many years rectifying. I had been the person who found that truth, and he resented me for it.”

“David Hudson was Mrs. Hudson’s husband,” John worked out, stunned. “You made sure he was convicted of the embezzlement.”

“I did,” Sherlock nodded. “That case was how I met Mrs. Hudson – and I could never regret that. As it turned out, Mr. Hudson had also committed first-degree murder numerous times later on, after his joint crime with Mr. Trevor, which was why he was sentenced to death. Mrs. Hudson had no idea what he had been mixed up in, but he was not kind to her and physically abused her on more than one occasion. She was grateful for even a little kindness then, and I did not want to see her hurt further. I told Hudson that if he did not want spousal assault and battery added to the list of crimes for which he was executed, he would sign over enough of his legal assets for her to live decently. He resisted, but he was at least smart enough to see that he had no further use for the money. He may have wanted to do one decent thing before he died; I am not sure.  I had Mycroft get someone to draw up the paperwork and talked Hudson into signing it before his assets were frozen. When I went to the Hudson residence to give Mrs. Hudson the papers, she cried and then made me tea and biscuits,” Sherlock said with a small, reminiscent smile.

John kissed him softly. “You are amazing,” he said. “No wonder she adores you so. That was why you got so angry with the men who hurt her during the Adler case, wasn’t it? Not only did they threaten her life, but also they physically hurt her, just like her ex-husband. It was why she was so shaken and upset.”

The faintest hint of pink suffused Sherlock’s cheeks. “Exactly. As for helping her during Hudson’s prosecution, she was being hurt by that pathetic excuse for a human being; I could hardly do nothing,” he said derisively, trying for his usual superior tone. In the next moment, though, his face turned thoughtful. “In a way, knowing Victor and meeting Mrs. Hudson also led to meeting you, along with Mike Stamford and who knows how many other factors. I suppose in that sense I ought to be grateful, even though things with Victor ended badly.”

“ _Ended_ badly?” John echoed indignantly. “I can’t imagine they _started_ well, if Trevor was so terrified of what others would think that he wouldn’t let you be his boyfriend in public.”

“Need I remind you that you were the one who constantly declared his heterosexuality, whenever anyone thought we were together?” Sherlock said sharply. “Not to mention telling Sebastian Wilkes that you were my colleague, after I had introduced you as my friend.”

John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s forehead, wincing at the painful reminder of those particular memories. “That was one of the things I wished I could apologize for, when I thought you were – dead. I was an idiot,” John said plainly. “Wilkes’ attitude put me off, and I didn’t realize until afterward how much it had hurt you, but that’s no excuse. I should never have corrected you. As for insisting I was straight, there’s really no excuse for that either, except that I thought I _was_. I got tired of people assuming we were together when we weren’t, but it shouldn’t have mattered what anyone else thought. And as I said, after that lovely conversation with Ms. Adler, I had to stop lying to myself – so I stopped lying to everyone else as well. Whatever else wanting you and loving you meant, it clearly meant that ‘straight’ was not accurate anymore. I’m so sorry for hurting you that way – even sorrier now that I know about Victor.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes softening with John’s explanation. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That – helps, to know that. And Victor and I were both young and scared, John,” Sherlock reminded him, his tone oddly compassionate. “I was scared of how much I actually cared for him, and his insistence on secrecy and maintaining a casual friendship in public hurt me greatly – God knows I tried to delete the memory of all of it enough times, but I couldn’t. On the other hand, not everyone is fortunate enough to have a family that accepts or embraces all sexual preferences. Mr. Trevor would not have approved, even though he loved Victor. My own family members are not at all emotionally demonstrative, except perhaps for Mummy, but neither do they care about the social conventions surrounding love and intimacy. They are intelligent enough to know that loving another person is the important thing, not the biological form that person happens to have. It was always made very clear to both Mycroft and me that anyone we brought home would be welcome, as long as we were happy.”

“Were you happy with Victor, when you were by yourselves?” John asked. He hoped that Sherlock had been given that much, at least, that _some_ of his first experiences in a relationship had been kind.

Sherlock considered. “I was at the beginning,” he said at last. “We _were_ friends; that much was sincere and honest, as odd as our friendship was. It became difficult, however, to maintain my apparent indifference when we were in front of others. I was skilled at acting even then, but I hated having to exercise my skill in such a way. By the time I left Norfolk the first time, before the events with Mr. Trevor and David Hudson, I was emotionally exhausted. I think, even had the case not intervened, I would have broken things off. It hurt too much, in the end.”

“And after Victor?” John asked tenderly. He was fairly sure he knew at least part of the answer, but it would help to know whatever else Sherlock would tell him. Sherlock’s narrative went a long way toward explaining why he had actively avoided intimate relationships and pushed away those who were interested in him; the break-up with Victor had damaged him when he was much younger and more vulnerable, almost half a lifetime before he had met John. It had been the catalyst for Sherlock to build up his shields and defenses so completely. Between schoolyard bullying and taunting from his university classmates, Sherlock had been determined not to be hurt again, and had succeeded so completely that he managed to convince most of the world that he was an unfeeling machine. John needed to remember all of this, needed to store away these reminders of how vulnerable Sherlock truly was – the detective was telling him, in no uncertain terms, that having to hide his love before, having Victor publicly deny his feelings for Sherlock, had hurt him almost more than he could bear. John would not put him through that twice.

“I took Mycroft’s advice,” Sherlock said acerbically. His voice turned cold again, and his body went as rigid as a rail, prompting John to instinctively tighten his arm around Sherlock’s torso. “Caring is not an advantage. There was not anyone else at uni who I really got along with or cared for, and so I retreated into my books and into the lab. I only went out when I couldn’t stand the solitude any longer. I discovered that strangers found me attractive, and flirting is ridiculously easy when you know the signs of desire to look for. After Mr. Trevor, I began to think that I could actually create my own profession as a consulting detective, and understanding desire was certainly an important part of understanding criminal motivation. Obtaining the occasional sexual partner was simple.”

John let out a long, slow breath, making a mental note to dig in Mycroft’s mind in the near future and find out why he would instill such a destructive attitude into his younger brother – and then point out to him the failures of that particular philosophy, if he hadn’t realized them already. “That doesn’t sound as though you enjoyed your partners very much,” he observed quietly.

“Physical release was the goal, not mental compatibility,” Sherlock retorted. “The physiological reactions were fascinating and orgasms pleasant, and I learned very quickly how to satisfy a partner. I had both male and female partners, though only two of each. I saw no reason why the biological sex of a partner should make a difference when it came to sexual encounters, and it didn’t seem to. The mechanics were different, but not the outcome. Victor and I had never engaged in sex of any kind, so it was all very informative.”

“But you didn’t stay with any of them,” John said, a statement with only the hint of a question.

“Why would I? They bored me and I bothered them, to the point where interacting further was utterly pointless,” Sherlock snapped.

John still hadn’t let go of Sherlock, but he deliberately, carefully eased the tightness of his grip, knowing that he had to be putting pressure on Sherlock’s injuries. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch the wall in lieu of punching these nameless people who had somehow – _somehow_ , he could hear it, even through the frigid, careless tone – hurt Sherlock, or lecture the younger version of Sherlock for being such an idiot about his feelings, or simply wrap himself around the detective and never let go.

One look down at Sherlock’s face made that decision for him – and the first two options were impractical, anyway, John reminded himself. Sherlock’s features were utterly blank, devoid of everything except that impenetrable demeanor he adopted around almost everyone, the untouchable mask that allowed him to deal with derision and cruelty. He was waiting for the same kind of vitriol and condemnation to come from John’s mouth, was waiting for the blow that would shatter his fragile heart.

John moved downward until his face was level with Sherlock’s, and then reached out and gently curled his limbs around his best friend’s thin form, twining his legs around Sherlock’s, one arm around his waist, and the other around his shoulders. He tucked his face next to Sherlock’s so that they were cheek to cheek, setting a fervent kiss on his temple.

“John?” Sherlock ventured uncertainly, his body tense now with surprise rather than with the anticipation of rejection.

“You’re an idiot, Sherlock Holmes, and I ought to shake you for being so careless with that beautiful, loyal heart of yours,” John said, his voice thick but still fond. “This is what that facial expression was about earlier, wasn’t it? You were afraid I’d hate you for ‘experimenting’ on people, with sex, when you didn’t care about them. Plenty of people do, and for some people it’s fine, but for you? If I had known you then, I would have told you it was a bad idea.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, and John could hear the pure curiosity in his voice now. It made him smile; he had forgotten how fascinated Sherlock could be by the way John saw him.

John pulled back enough that he could look Sherlock in the eyes. “Because sex can be used as a way _not_ to feel, just as much as it can be a way to emotionally connect with someone, and I’d wager that after Victor, having feelings for someone was the last thing you wanted. You wanted a distraction, some way to bury whatever hurt you were still feeling, bury your heart under physical stimulation along with chemistry and cases. And I have news for you, Sherlock – I could never hate you for being so human, but it hurts more than I can tell you to think of you being so lonely. I know how deeply you feel things, and how much you feel for the few people you let in, and I wish I could go back and make all of those bad feelings go away.”

The last remnants of icy reserve melted off of Sherlock’s features, and his vulnerability and love for John came back full force, making John’s breath catch. Sherlock leaned forward to rest his head in the curve of John’s shoulder.

“It was harder to be alone after Victor,” Sherlock confessed. “I gradually acclimated to it again, but sex _was_ an easy distraction for a while. Physical rather than mental, simple chemical reactions.”

“Not worth it, though?” John suggested, and Sherlock nodded.

“No,” he agreed. “My partners did not care for my anti-social habits or my deductions, and I found them predictable and tedious in normal conversation. The benefits were not worth the drawbacks. Keeping people at arm’s length was far easier.”

A horrible possibility suddenly occurred to John, and his fingers tightened in Sherlock’s shirt. “Sherlock, tell me that Wilkes wasn’t one of the people you slept with,” he said tightly.

It was Sherlock’s turn to pull back and look at him, and his face was so openly shocked and full of revulsion that John knew the answer before he spoke. “Seb? Good God, no. Why on earth would you think that?”

“He was – when we met him at the bank, he was –” John struggled to find the words to form his impression of Sebastian Wilkes, who had left him uneasy in a way he couldn’t quantify.

“Ingratiating? Snide? Sycophantic?” Sherlock suggested archly.

“Yes, all of that, but also – familiar? Overly familiar, really. He knew you well enough to be nasty and make it look affable. When we told him about Van Coon, though, he honestly seemed upset. You called him ‘Seb’ as well as ‘Sebastian,’ like you did just now, as if you saw enough of him at uni to use his nickname, and yet it seemed pretty clear you didn’t get along,” John said, working through his thoughts.

“We didn’t,” Sherlock confirmed. “He hated me as much as everyone else, at first.”

“For knowing who he’d been shagging?” John said wryly, remembering Wilkes’ comment about breakfast in the Formal Hall.

“For that, and for knowing everything else that I could see on his face, his clothes, or his belongings,” Sherlock said calmly. “He also disliked that I had no interest in his familial or business connections. I essentially had no reason to cultivate his acquaintance, socially or otherwise, and it aggravated him. He was hardly the first or the last person to tell me to piss off – but I saved his girlfriend’s life in our third year, and that changed his attitude rather a lot.”

“You saved his girlfriend’s life? How?” John asked somberly.

“She was stalked and then kidnapped by a fellow university classmate,” Sherlock said succinctly, though not without sympathy. “Despite his dislike for me, Seb asked for my help when the police were getting nowhere. It had been forty-eight hours, and he was legitimately concerned for her life. Fortunately, I found her kidnapper before he could do more than tie her up and bruise her. She was very grateful, as was Seb. He still disliked me, but he never questioned my skills again. We came to something of a truce – a slightly hostile truce, but a truce nonetheless.”

“So he brings you in to investigate the break-in at his bank, because he knows you can get results, but he still says mean things disguised as politeness,” John summarized. “Awfully big of him,” he added sarcastically. “I take it he didn’t marry the girl.”

“No,” Sherlock said, fixing John with a narrow-eyed look. “How did you know that?”

“Sherlock, if you had saved the woman who became his wife, there is no way he would continue to be that much of an arse to you,” John said bluntly. “Just by being alive, she would have reminded him every day of what he owed to you. He obviously cared enough about her and went out with her long enough that he still hasn’t forgotten what you did, so he isn’t completely heartless, which also explains his reaction about Van Coon. He’s arrogant and ambitious, regardless, and doesn’t like that he’s vulnerable to deduction around you, so he takes it out on you with insults.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, his lips curling up in an amused smile as he watched and listened to John. “You do not observe the way I do and you never have, yet untangling people’s emotions is still so simple for you. My conductor of light, indeed.”

John chuckled. “Everyone’s emotions but my own, apparently.” His tone was light, but grief tightened his chest once more as he was reminded of how blind he had been and how much he had almost lost. His hold on Sherlock tightened again involuntarily.

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow and kissed John gently but thoroughly. “I won’t leave you again, not intentionally,” he whispered. “Never again, John. I couldn’t.”

John nodded, blinking away the mist in his eyes and trying to smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You won’t have to,” Sherlock promised. The love and conviction in his voice and eyes were so compelling that they washed through John like a wave, eradicating the last of his fear and leaving peace in their wake.

“Now, shall we talk through some of these cases of Lestrade’s?” Sherlock proposed with a smile, kissing John once more before maneuvering to a sitting position.

John sat up as well, curiosity getting the better of him as he looked at the stack of files.

“Anything interesting?” he queried, and Sherlock nodded.

“Mildly interesting, so far. Double murder of a heterosexual married couple, murderer used a handgun, no fingerprints, no obvious motive. The couple seemed to be on good terms with all of their friends, no professional rivalries. Everything in the flat was left alone; the lock was intact, nothing appeared to be missing, and the cleaning lady who found them was the one to call the police. However, I’m fairly sure it was one of the man’s coworkers – a woman, who was probably – no, certainly – having affairs with both of them,” Sherlock said, peering at the photographs intently. “She must have borrowed one of their keys and had a copy made so that she could get into the flat, and she would have returned it within a very short period of time, likely over a lunch hour. Killing the couple together in the bed was symbolic, and it also explains why she left everything else in the flat; the murder was about her emotions rather than any material acquisition. Lestrade needs to look for a female co-worker with some kind of personal or familial background in anatomy or medicine, and one who had easy access to the husband’s office. Hopefully that will give him enough to go on. One of the female employees has to be lacking an adequate alibi,” Sherlock explained.

 “Amazing,” John said with a smile, his mind awash with the new information as he sorted through the photographs, trying to see the evidence as Sherlock saw it. Sherlock paused, then dove in and kissed John abruptly, so unexpectedly that it took John a few scrambled seconds to process and reciprocate.

“God, I’ve missed this,” Sherlock said fiercely, a hint of the old exultation in his tone as he looked at John with shining eyes. “I have missed _you_ , my John, and all of the light and clarity that you provide.”

“Glad to be of service,” John teased, but the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze and the open adoration in his words sent love and adrenaline thrilling through him, and he held Sherlock’s eyes with his own until the detective blinked, forcing himself to refocus.

“What I don’t know yet is whether the woman was seeking a polyamorous relationship with the two of them, or if something in her past drove her to instigate the affair and then punish the couple for being unfaithful . . .” Sherlock continued, working through the possibilities as he perused the photographs a second time. The detective went on, eventually standing and pacing the room in agitation, using John as a sounding board until he had come to a satisfactory conclusion.

 _The more things change, the more they stay the same_ , John thought with a private smile as he watched Sherlock do what he did best. For the first time in over a year, he was utterly and completely content. Whatever else they might have to work through in the coming days, he had Sherlock back, and that was all that mattered.

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson and Sarah are let in on the secret, and John and Sherlock finally return to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own any part of _Sherlock_ ; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note** : Having now finally seen Season Three, I can say that I absolutely loved it. I was glad that I was right about Sherlock failing to predict that Moriarty was willing to kill himself; that actually gave me the shivers because it was so close to what I had already written. And here we finally get some of the not-so-good reaction to all of these events. Mrs. Hudson and the boys have some angst to work through. Not too much, but some. What I thought was going to be one chapter became so long that it turned into two, so you won’t see Greg and Molly until the next chapter. 
> 
> I first read about John turning the upstairs bedroom into a lab in “Changing the Rules” by xelectrogirlx, over on FF.net, months and months ago. Although I think it’s been done many times in the fandom, I wanted to give her and her story credit for putting that particular idea in my head. As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 for being my beta and very good friend. Also, my deepest heartfelt thanks to the wonderful Nagaem_C for helping me work out some of the more difficult issues in this chapter, and for her invaluable help with voices and syntax. If you haven’t read her marvelous “Needles and Pins” series, by all means read!

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Seven**

 

John’s contentment lasted until exactly 2:35 a.m., when he was abruptly woken out of a sound sleep. He blinked rapidly for a moment, trying to determine what had roused him, when he suddenly realized that Sherlock was shifting restlessly next to him, twitching, with soft sounds of distress escaping his throat.

John sat up, leaning over Sherlock. The detective was curled on his side, facing away from John, and the doctor winced to think what the position must be doing to his ribs. John carefully rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, speaking next to his ear.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. It’s all right. You’re safe,” he said softly.

Sherlock woke with a sharp inhale, the only sound he made before he managed to roll over and bury his face in John’s chest, clutching at him.

“Shhh,” John soothed. “You’re all right. I’m here; it’s all right.”

He ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, then rubbed up and down his back, trying to ease the shaking that Sherlock couldn’t control, the physical aftereffect of whatever dream he had been having.

He realized that Sherlock was whispering into his t-shirt, the same phrase over and over, and it took three times before he was able to catch the words.

“I could not let him take you, I could not let him take you . . .”

John’s hands stilled. “The sniper?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded against him, a hard shudder running through his frame as he redoubled his grip on John.

“The sniper, or any other operative of Moriarty’s,” he choked out, his voice so low and gravelly it was almost unrecognizable. “While I was . . . gone, I would dream of it – the sniper shooting you, someone else in the organization finding out I was alive and taking you, torturing you, making me watch as you died. They were terrifying, the dreams, but they made me careful. I held on to the anger they created; I would remember them and remind myself not to be reckless, not to be _stupid_ , that one slip could mean your life as well as mine. I thought – I hoped that once I was home, once I knew you were safe, they would stop . . .”

Sherlock’s voice trailed off, and John could feel wetness seeping into his shirt. He resumed his stroking of Sherlock’s shoulders before speaking again.

“I still dream of you falling off that rooftop,” he confessed, his voice soft. “The first few weeks after you died, I almost didn’t sleep at all, because every time I closed my eyes, every moment of that phone call played out in my head, and it was like losing you all over again, every time. The dreams happened less frequently after a while, but they’ve never stopped. I’m sure that at some point I will wake you up very much like this.”

He tugged gently at Sherlock’s arms, urging him upward, and the taller man adjusted  himself until his head was next to John’s, one of his arms over John’s torso and one of his long legs over both of John’s. John found the pale outline of Sherlock’s face in the dark and wiped the remaining traces of tears away with his thumbs.

“A very wise butler reminded me,” John said, startling a short, wet chuckle out of Sherlock, “that we should place the blame for all of this where it belongs – with Jim Moriarty. We were both cornered, traumatized, and emotionally compromised at his hands, especially you. But we are also both here, alive, and together thanks to your brilliance, and your sheer bloody-mindedness,” John said, making Sherlock chuckle again. “And we will heal together, Sherlock. It will take time, but we _will_ heal.”

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes before he spoke, but John could see his eyes even in the dark, gazing at some memory that John could not see.

“I was lucky,” he said at last. “Very lucky, several times, that I was not caught and tortured or simply killed outright. I did as much reconnaissance as possible, planned for as many contingencies as I could, but there were several close calls. Each time, in those moments when I wasn’t sure whether or not I would escape, I called you up in my mind – your strength, your incredible bravery, John – and tried to channel that strength and bravery into myself. You were with me every moment.”

“I heard you, in my head, every day,” John returned, looking into his eyes. “Deductions, derision, your rants about other people’s stupidity, the inappropriate jokes you would have made about my patients or the crimes I saw in the papers, your laughter – and everything you might have said to me if I hadn’t kept going on with my life, if I didn’t at least try to keep living. Whenever – however I saw you again, I didn’t want to face that lecture,” he said with a small smile.

Sherlock smiled the half-smile that was so dear to John, and traced the planes of John’s face with his long violinist’s fingers. “Indeed. I would have been very unhappy with you.” He settled against John’s shoulder again, and the pair of them began to drift slowly back into sleep, holding each other close.

Just before he lost consciousness, John heard Sherlock’s voice in his ear.

“Stay with me. Stay with me always.”

* * *

 

The next few days were quiet. Sherlock immersed himself in Lestrade’s cold cases, and John returned to work at the surgery. He left a little early each day in order to spend several hours at 221B, cleaning, rearranging, and chatting with Mrs. Hudson. He brought what remained of his possessions from the bedsit back to Baker St., and paid Mrs. Hudson the first month’s rent.

When he returned to Mycroft’s, tired but happy, he and Sherlock would have a late dinner with Mycroft and then retreat to the guest suite. Sherlock wouldn’t play, although he admitted that he had been practicing while John was working, but often they would each immerse themselves in reading, or find something on the television that they could both tolerate, until they were tired enough to fall into bed. Their evenings were simply about being together, no matter what they were doing, and finding their way among the new paths and boundaries of their relationship. They would lie curled together on the couch, drinking in each other’s closeness and the novelty of being able to touch and caress. John was grateful for the down time and the quiet, the chance to readjust to each other before they returned to Baker Street and what was sure to be a hectic reintroduction to London, cases, and the media.

Thursday, just short of a week after Sherlock had returned, became the day that everything went into motion. Mycroft informed them at dinner Wednesday night that Sherlock was as good as living again, legally speaking. Sherlock’s driver’s license and health insurance had been reissued (something else that must have been taken care of while John was working, since he had never seen Sherlock sign any paperwork), his trust fund was reinstated (and John’s eyebrows had gone up at that, since he and Sherlock had never really talked about finances), and the family lawyer would have a new will for him in another week.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Did I have an old will?”

“No, which was really most irresponsible of you, brother dear, considering the life you lead,” Mycroft said crisply. “I took the liberty of having one drawn up for you; of course, you will have to approve it before you sign.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock muttered. “Everything I had would have reverted to the family estate anyway.”

“Yes, well, I rather thought things might be different now,” Mycroft said pointedly.

Hardly knowing why he did so, John shoved his chair away from the table and stalked off, unexpectedly angry and upset by the conversation. Aware that Sherlock would come to find him, he headed for the garden at the back of the house, where they stood the best chance of not being seen.

It was mere minutes before the detective came out behind him, silently gliding up behind John and wrapping his arms around John’s waist. He nuzzled John’s hair, waiting for the doctor to speak.

“I don’t give a damn about your money,” John growled. “All the money in the world wouldn’t make a difference if you were really – gone.  I think that much has been made abundantly clear already.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured. “Much as I am loath to admit it, however, Mycroft does have a point. We do not lead safe lives, John, and I doubt that will change in the immediate future. If anything were to happen to me, I would want you to have my assets, whatever they are. He is simply being practical.”

“I know,” John sighed. “And I feel the same, and I’ll have to fix my own will.” Here he twisted around in Sherlock’s arms so that he was facing the detective and looped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, his dark blue eyes full of anguish. “But I just got you back after a year of thinking you dead. Please don’t ask me to contemplate your death again. Not yet. I can’t.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll make sure that the family lawyer brings all of his paperwork while you are at the surgery, John. And for what it’s worth, I don’t wish to think of your death, either. We’ve both just gotten our life back, and I would prefer to think of that above all else.”

John nodded back in agreement. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, all right? Mycroft can clear his teatime on Friday – I don’t care what else he thinks he has going on – and you and I will be home.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him then, and John allowed himself to relax at last, feeling the world right itself again as they embraced in the moonlight.

* * *

 

As John entered the surgery Thursday morning, he immediately sought out Sarah. He knocked lightly on the door of her office, and she raised her head from where she was filling in charts.

“Good morning,” John smiled. “Can we do that lunch today? Still my treat.”

“As long as I still get to know what happened over the weekend,” Sarah retorted playfully.

“You most certainly do; that quick day off was a lifesaver,” John replied immediately. “Can Andy cover for us for an hour?”

“I’m sure it will be fine; it’s a quiet day on the schedule,” Sarah said. “Shall we go around noon? That nice deli on the corner?”

“I’ll see you then,” John agreed, and made his way to his own office to deal with the morning’s first patient.

* * *

 

He emerged at 12:01 having seen ten patients, and he spotted Sarah pulling on her overcoat and scarf.

“That was a fast morning,” he commented as he reached for his own coat. “Two cases of flu, a couple of colds, Mrs. Martinez with her arthritis, poor lady, and a handful of new patients. Oh, and one asthma attack.”

Sarah grinned. “All in a day’s work. Doing our bit to keep the population of London healthy.”

John offered his elbow, and Sarah tucked her hand through it as they went through the door and started down the block to the deli.

“So, are you going to tell me your news?” Sarah asked curiously. “I have to say, you have looked better in the past three days than you did for the entire year before that. What’s happened?”

“You’re not going to believe it,” John said with a shake of his head. “I hardly believe it, yet, and I’ve had almost a week to wrap my head around it. I wanted you to hear about it from me before you heard it from anywhere else, though; this is going to get a bit messy.”

“John,” Sarah said, stopping just before the door to the deli, “what on earth is going on?”

John couldn’t quite contain his smile. “Sherlock’s alive, Sarah,” he said. “I found out last Friday, and I’ve been with him every day since, at his brother’s house in Knightsbridge.”

Sarah put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “He – he didn’t actually jump off the roof, then? It wasn’t actually him?”

“Oh, no, it was him,” John said, his face becoming solemn again. “It’s a miracle he didn’t break his bloody neck, actually. If I weren’t so happy he’s alive, I would probably be a lot angrier about that.”

“Oh, my God,” Sarah said again, looking dazed. “Come here. Come in, and we’re going to get some food, and you’re going to tell me all about it.”

She opened the door and tugged John hastily over to the counter while he chuckled at her eagerness. They ordered whole wheat wraps and chips, and once they had paid for their food and found a table by the window, Sarah looked at John expectantly.

“Now, tell me everything,” she demanded. “Why did he do it? Why didn’t he tell you?”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, and with a small sigh he launched into the reasons behind Sherlock’s fall and the mission he had been on in the year since, taking out the key members of Moriarty’s network. “Sherlock hasn’t told me much more than that, and I don’t know that he ever will, but he was in danger every minute of that time. He’s still recovering from a knife wound, cracked ribs, and a pretty severe beating, and those are just his most recent injuries,” John finished.

Sarah propped her chin on her hand and absorbed that information for a minute or so in silence.

“You know, he was kind to me,” she said eventually, and John blinked, perplexed.

“Sorry?”

“He was kind to me,” Sarah repeated patiently. “When he was trying to free me in the train tunnel. He kept telling me over and over, soothingly, that it was all right, everything was over. He was very gentle with my wrists; I think he could tell that the ropes had made my skin raw. I could hardly take it in at the time, but afterward, that was what I remembered the most. And I thought, no matter what he is like on the outside, anyone who could be that kind and gentle to a complete stranger cannot possibly be heartless or without feeling.”

John felt a lump form in his throat and he had to look away, out the window, as he swallowed. “He isn’t heartless at all. He just – lets very few people in.”

“And you’re one of those special people,” Sarah observed gently, with a smile. “I’m very glad he’s all right, that he’s recovering. Have you finally told him how you feel about him, then?”

John sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows at her.

“What? Oh, come on, John, don’t give me that look,” Sarah said. “I know you never said it, but it was as obvious to me as the nose on your face. Even when we met he was the center of your world, and no one grieves as you did for him without having feelings beyond those for a flatmate or a best friend. Whether you’ve admitted it or not is something else, but I think you have, and quite some time ago, too. If you didn’t kiss him the minute you finished yelling at him, I will never forgive you.”

That broke the tension; John leaned his head back and laughed. “Well, I did, as a matter of fact, so you don’t have to worry about giving me the silent treatment,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

Sarah sat up straighter, her eyes sparkling back at him. “And he kissed you back, or you’d never look like you do right now. He’s an amazing kisser, isn’t he? God, the two of you kissing is a lovely thought.”

“Sarah!” John protested, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.

“Well, it is,” Sarah said impishly. “You’re blond and blue-eyed and boyish, but with that distinguished bit of gray in your hair, and he’s tall, dark, and mysterious. It’s a study in contrasts.”

“I am not having this conversation with you,” John said firmly, conveniently taking a sip of his bottled water, though a smile still tugged at his mouth.

“Does he understand what he did to you, though, John?” Sarah questioned, her face suddenly turning serious again. “Does he understand how much you need him? I will go after him myself if he hurts you like that in the future.”

“He does,” John told her solemnly, holding her gaze.

“How do you know?” Sarah pressed him. “How do you know he won’t come up with another crazy scheme that leaves you in the dark, the next time someone threatens you both?”

“Because he did it to himself, too,” John said softly. “Because he was just as lost without me as I was without him. That might sound hard to believe, but – I see it every time he looks at me.”

Sarah considered him for a moment, until her face broke into another smile.

“Then I wish you both every happiness,” she said sincerely. “Have you told Mrs. Hudson yet?”

John sighed. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be so grateful. We’re both ready to be home. I really wanted to tell her first, but I’m not in the clinic tomorrow, and this will be all over the papers by Monday or Tuesday. It was important to me that you didn’t read about this before I could talk to you about it. You’re a good friend, Sarah, and you’ve kept me in one piece this year, just by giving me work to do and giving me a purpose.”

Sarah squeezed her hand around his, which was resting on the table. “You’re welcome. That’s what friends do, John,” she reminded him. “You’re a good man, and I wasn’t about to let you waste away into nothing, even if all I could give you was a small reason to get up in the morning. And anyway, it worked out in my favor, didn’t it? We needed a good doctor desperately this year; I would never have managed without you. But just promise me something, no matter what you and Sherlock decide to do, no matter what you decide about the clinic.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you let him push you out,” Sarah said firmly. “I doubt he ever could, not after this, but from what you’ve told me and what little I know of him, Sherlock is a master at pushing people’s buttons.”

“Points to you for the understatement of the year,” John agreed, his lips twitching.

“Some part of him is probably terrified about how much of a hold you have on him, and people can react badly when they’re scared,” Sarah pointed out. “I know he’s had some time to get used to it, but he also hasn’t been around you on a daily basis. It’s going to feel different. I would imagine it already does, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” John said reflectively. “Different in the best of ways, for the most part, but it does.”

“I’m only saying, whenever Sherlock is back to his demanding, stubborn self,” Sarah continued, and John couldn’t help but smile at that, “if he ever feels cornered and turns on you, you remember that you are just as stubborn as he is and just as determined. You hang on to him with all of your might and make him tell you what is really going on in that great brain of his. I’m starting to get a picture of him now, and it seems to me that what he shows on the surface isn’t a tenth of what he’s actually feeling or thinking.”

John nodded. “That’s absolutely true. I had to do a bit of that stubborn digging last night, actually, and I learned more about his past than he’d ever told me before. I’ll remember, Sarah, don’t worry. I don’t have any intention of letting him go again.”

“That’s good, then,” Sarah said with relief. “And maybe now that Sherlock doesn’t see me as a rival,” she said teasingly, “I could come over for dinner and actually, you know, be friends with him. I’d like to get to know him better.”

John’s eyebrows went up again. “You and Sherlock being friends? I can’t decide whether that’s brilliant or terrifying,” he said, and Sarah laughed.

* * *

 

After lunch, John’s afternoon at the surgery went quickly, and when he arrived at Baker Street after work, John asked Mrs. Hudson if Mycroft could come around for tea the next day.

“Well, of course he can if he would like to, the poor man,” Mrs. Hudson sympathized. “I can see why he might want to come back.”

“Apparently he’s had some news about Sherlock’s case,” John said carefully, using the subterfuge that he, Mycroft, and Sherlock had agreed upon.

“They’ve already declared that he was innocent, though, John,” the landlady replied, wringing her hands. “Surely they can’t take it back? What on earth could Mycroft have to tell us?”

“No, of course they can’t take it back, Mrs. Hudson. I suppose we’ll have to see, won’t we?” John returned, trying to project the normal amount of annoyance and indifference he usually did when speaking of Mycroft.

“I suppose so. Oh, dear,” she fretted. “I’ll have to get to the shops; Mycroft is so fond of my angel food cake.”

* * *

 

Before he left Mycroft’s home on Friday morning to go to work, John sought out Willoughby, to thank the butler once again and to say goodbye. Since they would be back at Baker Street before nightfall, John wasn’t sure when they would see Willoughby again, and he felt grateful for the butler’s care and his obvious love for Sherlock, as well as the small insights into the detective’s past.

He found Willoughby in the kitchen, apparently pondering over that evening’s dinner menu. When he knocked hesitantly on the doorframe, Willoughby looked up and smiled, his eyes crinkling in welcome.

“Come in, Dr. Watson, come in,” he beckoned.

“Good morning, Willoughby,” John said with a smile. “I’m off to work, and Sherlock and I are heading to Baker Street this afternoon. I just wanted to find you and thank you for everything you’ve done for us this week – and for everything you did for Sherlock, when he needed someone so badly and I wasn’t there,” John added, his voice low.

Willoughby nodded in understanding. “I have always been very – very fond of Sherlock, John,” he answered earnestly. “I always hoped he would find someone who would love him the way he deserved – and I have no doubt that you do,” the butler finished.

John beamed. “I do,” he affirmed, holding out a hand. Willoughby took it, shaking it firmly.

“Bring him back to visit every once in a while, Dr. Watson,” Willoughby requested, his eyes wistful. “I do miss him when he stays away so long.”

“I’ll do my best,” John promised with a grin, and with that he was off to the surgery.

The day, thankfully, was busy and went by rapidly, and John was grateful for the distraction. By the afternoon, had John been any other kind of person, he would have been shaking with nerves. He packed a small bag before leaving the clinic, just in case, prepared to treat Mrs. Hudson for anything from shock to a panic attack, and he noticed absently that his hands were completely steady. He felt the cool detachment flowing through him that had served him so well on the battlefield: do his job first and deal with his emotions later.

As he left the office, he found one of Mycroft’s cars waiting for him as expected. He slid in the back next to Sherlock, who was staring pensively out the window, and across from Mycroft, who looked – well, not tense, exactly, but not quite relaxed either. John took a kind of smug satisfaction in seeing that; Mycroft clearly knew that Mrs. Hudson was one of the few people that neither John nor Sherlock would tolerate anyone trifling with.

To be fair, Sherlock himself was nervous; the very stillness with which he kept his pose at the window told John how tight a hold he was keeping on his emotions. Sherlock would rather do just about anything than show weakness in front of his brother, and stillness was his best way of avoiding that. As John got into the car, Sherlock reached out a hand to him, the only movement he made or indication he gave that he noticed John and desired contact. John took his hand with a sure, tight grip, sitting close to him, and the three of them sat in silence as the car made its way to Baker Street.

When the black car pulled smoothly up to the curb next to 221B, John felt a wave of relief wash through him simply looking at the black door with its heavy knocker. Sherlock did not move a muscle, and John refused to move until he could talk to Sherlock, so he simply stared at Mycroft until the elder Holmes rolled his eyes and got out of the car.

Sherlock turned to John with a little smile. “Impressive. Mycroft usually stays in place in a situation like that simply to assert his dominance.”

“He knows when to pick his battles, and he wasn’t going to win that one,” John said firmly. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly. “It’s going to be fine, you know. We’re just doing it this way to make sure that Mrs. Hudson isn’t shocked out of her wits.”

“I know,” Sherlock answered, though there was the faintest thread of uncertainty underneath the confident tone. He looked out the window behind John, at the familiar storefront, and then let his eyes slide closed as his forehead dropped to John’s shoulder. “I have wanted to be home for so long, John,” he murmured, winding an arm around John’s waist.

John smiled into his hair. “My thoughts exactly. Give Mycroft and me a few minutes to talk to Mrs. Hudson before you come in, and we’ll be home again.”

Sherlock straightened up, struggling to put away his feelings under a bit of levity. “Quickly, please. I miss our couch.”

John laughed and kissed him again, giving his hand another brief squeeze before he left the car. He found Mycroft leaning impatiently on his umbrella (how could someone convey impatience in such a correct posture?), and John strode past him and put his key in the lock of 221B.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called as he opened the door. “We’re here!”

Mrs. Hudson appeared immediately at her own door, wearing a smile. “Come in, John dear, come in. Hello, Mycroft,” she greeted the elder Holmes, and Mycroft managed a small smile for her.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he acknowledged.

“I’ve made your favorite cake, Mycroft, my angel food,” Mrs. Hudson said as they went back into 221A. “I know how fond you are of it. The tea’s just made, so it’s nice and hot.”

Mycroft’s smile was real this time, and with a shock, John realized that Mycroft, too, was nervous and attempting to hide it. The effort he had put into his smile in the hall was clear when John compared it to the genuine one that had appeared just now. He found, not for the first time in recent weeks, that he actually had some sympathy for Sherlock’s brother.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said sincerely. “I do appreciate it. I have never found angel food cake to equal yours.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed. “Thank you. Why don’t you both have a seat? What was it you wanted to tell us, Mycroft? Something about Sherlock?”

She gestured to the kitchen chairs, and while John took the one nearest to him, Mycroft stayed standing, accepting the tea Mrs. Hudson handed him.

John looked up at Mycroft, and the older man gave a minute, helpless shrug of his shoulders. No matter how it was phrased, this was not going to be easy.

“Well, as it turns out, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said slowly, “there is one particular piece of that puzzle that was my brother’s death that Scotland Yard did not manage to discern. Hardly surprising, given Sherlock’s intellect,” he added, with a touch of his usual hauteur. “They proved the authenticity of the cases he solved, cleared him of all the things Moriarty accused him of, but they did not find out the actual reason behind Sherlock’s . . . fall.”

Mrs. Hudson had been slicing the angel food cake and putting it on plates while Mycroft talked, and now her hands slowed, her eyes going from Mycroft’s face to John’s as she took that in.

“The actual reason?” she said carefully. “So there was another one, besides all of the terrible things that were being said about him? He didn’t . . . it wasn’t because . . .”

She didn’t finish, but John knew what she was going to say, because he had wondered it every day. _It wasn’t because we didn’t love him enough?_

“No. It wasn’t,” John said softly. “It was the opposite, really.”

Mrs. Hudson took the other chair, sitting across from John at the table. “I don’t understand, John. If he didn’t care about the papers, if he knew that we didn’t believe it, why would he . . . ?”

John reached out and put a hand over hers where it rested on the table. “There were snipers, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, as gently as possible. “Snipers on you, me, and Greg Lestrade. It was Moriarty’s way of getting Sherlock to jump; if he jumped, then we lived.”

Mrs. Hudson pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “So he did it for us? To save us?” she confirmed, her eyes wide and suspiciously bright.

John nodded. “He did. There was one thing Moriarty didn’t account for, though. Sherlock was on to him. He knew how everything might end; he knew how Moriarty wanted it to end. He had time to plan. Not much, but enough."

“Enough time for what?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking perplexedly at John. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, that dear man. I always knew he cared.”

John held tightly to her hand. “Enough time to create an illusion. To make his death look real when it . . . wasn’t,” he said slowly, wanting Mrs. Hudson to understand. “To make himself invisible so that he could take apart Moriarty’s organization.”

“It’s what he spent the last year doing,” Mycroft added solemnly. “I was the only one who knew for certain that he was alive, and he did not even inform me until several months later. He relied on my help and I relied on his skill, and he has accomplished a feat that I was, in all honesty, not sure was possible.”

“And so . . . he’s alive?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice trembling. John could tell she couldn’t quite believe it, and he understood; he could hardly comprehend it when Sherlock was standing in front of him at the Diogenes. “Sherlock is alive?”

“Most assuredly,” said a deep voice from behind them, softly, and John smiled as Mrs. Hudson looked up toward the doorway and her face transformed.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” she cried, flying up from her chair. She wrapped her arms around the tall frame of the consulting detective and sobbed happily into his shoulder, while Sherlock simply held her.

“You are _impossible_ , Sherlock Holmes!” she chastised him when she could speak again, though she hadn’t let go of him. “What were you _thinking_ , jumping off of a building that way? Risking your life in a fall like that?”

Sherlock smiled, recognizing the scolding for the act that it was. “My options were rather limited at the time, Mrs. Hudson.”

“You could have been killed regardless! We all thought you were _dead_!” she exclaimed.

 Sherlock leaned down and kissed her cheek. “But you are still here, and England still stands,” he said warmly, and Mrs. Hudson began to cry again.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” she wept. “Not for me. I know John was your primary worry; anyone with eyes would know that, but _really_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock folded his arms around her even more tenderly than before. “Nonsense.  I would never let anything happen to you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Thank you, Sherlock dear,” she murmured, and after one more brief squeeze, she let him go and shook herself, wiping at her cheeks.

“Look at me! Blubbering while the tea’s getting cold!” she said, moving back toward the table. “Sherlock, you take my chair and have a cuppa. John, Mycroft, did you need more?”

“Yes, please,” Mycroft said, holding out his teacup, and Mrs. Hudson refilled it quickly before bustling to the cupboard to get another cup for Sherlock.

“Come here, Mrs. Hudson,” John commanded – it was kind, but it was nevertheless an order, and Mrs. Hudson recognized it as she turned from the cupboard and raised an eyebrow at him. John gestured her over with his hand, immediately clasping her wrist and counting once she got close enough.

“Oh, John! I’m fine,” she tutted. “Shocked, but fine. There isn’t much that can get to you after finding out your husband is a thief and a murderer. And I’ve lived with Sherlock longer than you have, dear; resurrection’s about the only trick he _hasn’t_ pulled, up to now.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll feel better if I check,” John said firmly. “Why do you think we told you this way? The last thing we wanted was you going into shock, or your blood pressure going through the floor. Your pulse is steady, though.”

He stood and took a penlight from his pocket, checking her pupils for dilation and responsiveness, and turned her face to the light to make sure her color was good. Satisfied, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Resilient as always,” he said with a smile. “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Nonsense, just weathered and used to storms in life!” Mrs. Hudson said breezily, going back to her pouring. “And this is the best kind of upheaval.”

Sherlock took the chair next to John and smiled at him, and John returned the look, feeling as though his heart might burst from the reunion he had just witnessed and the warmth that had settled in his chest with the realization that they were all finally home. Sherlock eased himself back into his chair, but he was moving stiffly, and John frowned, reaching into his pocket.

“Take these. No arguments,” he warned, holding out three ibuprofen tablets.

Sherlock accepted them wordlessly and waited until Mrs. Hudson handed him his teacup before complying.

Mrs. Hudson looked from John to Sherlock’s face, and worry creased her brow.

“Sherlock, what is it? What have they done to you?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m all right, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing that won’t mend,” Sherlock said reassuringly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “John won’t accept any other outcome, you know.”

“You’d better believe I won’t, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has no qualms about being my co-conspirator,” John said, directing a smile to his landlady. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I will get you healed and healthy if I have to lock you into the flat to do it.”

“Useless,” Sherlock grinned, his eyes still closed.

“Well then, I’ll have to devise ways to keep you occupied, won’t I?” John said teasingly.

Sherlock raised his head and opened his eyes, giving John a smoldering look that was somewhere between a challenge and an invitation before sipping his tea again.

In his peripheral vision, John saw Mrs. Hudson observe their exchange and send an inquiring glance toward Mycroft, who merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Mrs. Hudson covered her delighted smile with her hand, and John hid his own smile; might as well let her know now, since she would find out one way or another.

“Sherlock, you look exhausted,” Mrs. Hudson said, with a maternal pat on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest? Thanks to John, the flat is cleaner than it’s been in years.”

“I had some help, Mrs. Hudson,” John reminded her, grinning, but she waved away his acknowledgement.

“I should be going as well, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. “I have a conference call with . . . well, it doesn’t matter, but I cannot be late. I’ll leave you in Doctor Watson’s capable hands, and I’ll be sure to have Inspector Lestrade’s files delivered on Monday, as we discussed.”

Sherlock gave a hum of what might have been acknowledgement, so John looked over at Mycroft. “Thank you. Having the weekend to get settled in will be helpful – and I rather think Sherlock could use the rest, before he takes whatever sort of greeting Greg and Molly are going to give him.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said dryly. “Good day, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for the tea.”

“You’re welcome. Here, take this with you,” she answered, handing him a Tupperware container containing a generous portion of the angel food cake.

Mycroft looked torn between gratitude and embarrassment, and Sherlock didn’t restrain the chuckle that escaped him. Only John’s nudge kept him from saying anything, and Mycroft’s manners won out – to a point.

“My thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I shall enjoy it,” he said with a nod. “Sherlock, do try to listen to John and not get into any life-threatening situations in the next two days; I really do not have time for your games.”

The needling that passed for normal interaction between the Holmes brothers was back. John sighed.

“Please don’t darken our door again until you have another international crisis you can’t handle, brother dear,” Sherlock returned acerbically. 

Mycroft tightened his lips, picked up his umbrella, and vanished. John shook his head.

“I suppose expecting you two to be even partially nice to each other for any length of time was too much to ask,” he said.

“Clearly,” Sherlock returned, not sounding repentant in the least. John shook his head again.

“Come on. Upstairs. You look like you could fall asleep where you sit, and there are a couple of things you’ll want to see before you get into bed,” John said, and Sherlock perked up.

“What? Why? What have you done?” the detective asked curiously, and John only grinned.

“You’ll find out. All right, Mrs. Hudson? Do you need any help?” John asked, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head, already clearing away the tea things.

“Oh, no, John, this is hardly anything at all. I’ll bring up some of the leftover cake for you boys in a tick,” Mrs. Hudson said, shooing them out.

John and Sherlock stood up, the latter moving slowly, and John put a hand at the small of the detective’s back in concern, but Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head. Their progress out of 221A and through the foyer was slow but steady. Sherlock winced as they began to ascend the stairs, but he kept moving, and he made it to the top before he paused to lean against the wall. 

“Being injured is most inconvenient,” he grumbled, and John smiled at hearing the old crossness in his tone.

“It is,” John agreed. “You’re already doing better than you were, though, and you should be fine in a few more weeks. Come on.”

 John held out a hand and Sherlock took it, and they stepped back into their flat together. Sherlock moved into the middle of the room, bringing John with him, taking everything in, and John’s happiness warmed him through as he saw the peace, the contentment, the quiet joy in Sherlock’s face at being home.

“I can actually see the surfaces,” Sherlock quipped, meeting John’s eyes. “I’m not sure I know what to do with them when they’re so clean.”

“I know they won’t stay that way, but I thought starting with a clean slate was probably best,” John said with a grin. He had cleaned until the flat was spotless; the table between the two tall windows was completely empty, save for his laptop and Sherlock’s that were both placed upon it. The sofa still occupied its place under the spray-painted smiley face and Sherlock’s bullet holes, and Mrs. Hudson’s cleaning had left it looking like new. The coffee table was free of dust. The upholstery on the two armchairs in front of the fireplace had been hoovered. John had straightened up the bookshelves and arranged all of the case files in neat boxes on the lower shelves next to the floor, with each box clearly labeled.

The kitchen was equally immaculate. All of the dishes were clean and put away in sparkling cupboards. There was a new light fixture above the table, one slight more ornate and in keeping with the Victorian feel of the flat. John had consulted with Mrs. Hudson to find something that matched. The table was clear of experiments of any kind; Sherlock frowned slightly as he noticed this.

“Mycroft said that Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of the lab equipment. I’ll have to replace it,” he said thoughtfully.

“No, you won’t,” John said mischievously. “Mycroft had several boxes of new equipment delivered the other day. It’s just not down here.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking intrigued and alarmed in equal measure. “What do you mean, not down here? What have you done with it?”

“Can you make it up to my old room?” John inquired with concern. “It’s up there, but if you are tired it can wait, Sherlock. I don’t want you setting yourself back.”

“I am tired, but I can manage, John,” Sherlock promised him. “Please, let’s go up. I want to see everything.”

Once again, Sherlock led the way, with John following behind and watching sharply for any signs that Sherlock might be in physical distress. The shorter staircase to the upstairs bedroom was navigated without incident, and John released a silent sigh of relief.

Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, his surprise written all over his face. “John,” he breathed.

“Do you like it? I hoped you would,” John said warmly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

In the few days he had been working in Baker Street, John had placed orders, made calls, and taken deliveries, and he had transformed their upstairs bedroom into a miniature lab. Cupboards and a counter and sink covered most of one wall. A small stainless steel refrigerator rested at the end of the cupboards, the same height as the counter. A long lab table stood in front of the cupboards, with the old rectangular fluorescent light from the kitchen hanging from the ceiling and illuminating the entire space. Sherlock’s new microscope and supply of beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, petri dishes, pipettes, and glass slides were all arranged neatly and within easy reach, though John knew the detective would create his own system.

The room was large enough that they did not have to sacrifice the bed and wardrobe; they had been put into the corners that were farthest from the workspace, so that they would stay clear of anything toxic.

“It’s . . . amazing, John,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he were trying to simply comprehend the sight in front of him. “How did you do all of this?”

John laughed. “I mostly just coordinated everything. I did some of the work, but I had help getting it all installed. The workmen were very efficient. I was grateful they were willing to come so late in the day.”

He turned to face Sherlock, placing both arms about the detective’s waist instead of just one. “When I came back and started thinking about – well, about cleaning, and living space, and all of it, I thought it would be nice for you to have a lab up here. You’ll still have to keep bigger things in the downstairs fridge, but this way, you can conduct experiments in peace, we have the kitchen free for cooking and eating, and if you need to kip up here when you’re in the middle of something long and complicated, you can. I put some of your clothes and pajamas in the wardrobe. Otherwise, we’ll have it for a guest room – a slightly unconventional one, I grant you, but then nothing about us is really conventional, is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face, rapidly, and John suddenly felt self-conscious. “Sherlock?” he questioned hesitantly, gently touching the detective’s cheek. “I’m sorry, did I – presume too much? I was hoping I hadn’t, but – it’s _all_ fine, you know. Whatever you need.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed again, and then he pressed his lips to John’s in utter, fervent abandon. His hands swept up to cradle John’s face, and after a moment his tongue brushed across the seam of John’s lips. John moaned quietly, meeting Sherlock’s tongue with his own, feeling the thrill of arousal in his blood, but more than anything else simply feeling his overwhelming _love_ for this man, his best friend and his savior and his home.

Sherlock pulled away from John’s mouth, only to kiss his cheekbones, his jawline, down to the pulse point in his neck, and over and down to the hollow of his throat.

“You are extraordinary, John Watson,” he murmured. “You are my own bundle of contradictions, and I want to spend the rest of my life discovering each and every facet of you. You could not _possibly_ presume too much.”

“Sherlock,” John said raggedly, his voice shaking with the intensity of his emotion. He clung to the detective’s shoulders, breathing rapidly and trying to maintain his equilibrium, reminding himself forcefully that Sherlock was still healing and in pain. 

Sherlock pulled John close, resting his lips on John’s hair, and his deep baritone voice washed over John like a benediction. “I love you,” he said, and John felt him smile. “I told you so many times while I was away, told the John in my Mind Palace, and I don’t think I will ever get tired of saying it to the real you.”

John breathed in the scent of Sherlock, ghosting his lips over the spot where Sherlock’s throat met his jaw. The happiness he felt was tempered slightly by the sobering reminder of Sherlock’s absence, but it only made him more grateful that they were here, standing together in their old home. “I can promise you I’ll never get tired of hearing it,” he murmured. “Thank you for staying alive so that I could.”

“You asked me to,” Sherlock reminded him. “You asked me not to be dead.”

John pulled back and looked up at him again, his eyes wide with wonder. “You _were_ there,” he said in realization. “I felt as though you were, but I thought it was all in my head.”

“I was,” Sherlock confirmed. “I was hidden behind some trees, some distance away, but near enough to overhear you. I had to see you one more time before I left, just in case I didn’t come back. I knew then how you felt when you were shot.”

John’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“I desperately wanted to live,” Sherlock answered earnestly, brushing another kiss over John’s forehead. “I prayed to whatever goodness exists in the universe that I would live. For you, John. Always for you.”

John closed his eyes, tucking his head back into Sherlock’s neck and feeling the reassuring, steady beating of his heart. “I think we were meant to live for each other.”

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Molly finally learn the truth and have mixed reactions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note:** I was thrilled that my prediction of Greg’s reaction was quite accurate, even if it was a much quicker moment in the show – I really did write his entire section in this chapter before watching the first episode! (I also had a good bit of Molly’s reaction plotted out in my head already, so the new canon didn’t really change this chapter much, thankfully, aside from the bits about Anderson.) As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who have been my saviors on this story.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Eight**

 

Greg Lestrade was not a stupid man. Despite what some at the Yard had thought in the wake of Sherlock’s death, he had worked hard and long to gain the title of Detective Inspector. To his regret, his devotion to his work and the long hours that came with it had contributed to the demise of his marriage, but he never considered doing anything else. He was generally a highly observant officer and very good at his job.

So when he came into work one Monday morning, just over a week after the one-year anniversary of Sherlock’s death, and found a clear space on his desk, with a stack of files that hadn’t been there when he left the night before, his investigative senses immediately went on high alert. Nothing appeared to be missing from his desk; the original contents had merely been moved aside. The door to his office bore no signs of a forced break-in or lock-picking, and neither did any of his filing cabinets.

“McKenzie!” he called out the open office door.

The auburn-haired, hazel-eyed sergeant appeared almost instantly. Her cubicle was only a few meters away.

“Yes, sir?” she inquired.

“Did you see anyone bring in these files on my desk?” Greg asked.

“They were brought in this morning, sir,” McKenzie answered promptly. “They arrived by courier about forty-five minutes ago. I had to take him up to the Superintendent in order to get into your office; he was most insistent that the files be put in your office exactly that way, and the office locked up again until you got here. He had a letter for the Super that silenced his objections faster than anything I’ve ever seen,” she added with some humor, her eyes twinkling.

“What did the courier look like?” Greg asked intently, wondering if he could track the man down.

“He was a government courier, sir. I saw the seal on the letter. He was from India or came from an Indian family, and he was wearing a light gray suit. After he gave the letter to the Super, I was given the key to let him into your office. He placed everything exactly as you see it, and he waited until he was sure I had locked the office up again. He wasn’t threatening, sir, just firm – as if he was used to passing along orders, if you know what I mean,” McKenzie finished.

“I do,” Greg nodded slowly.  This was one of many reasons he had liked Audra McKenzie from the moment he met her; she was intelligent and knew how to pay attention to details. “Thank you, McKenzie. Could you try to keep everyone away for a few minutes, please? I need to see what this is.”

“Will do, sir,” McKenzie said with a cheerful smile.

“Oh, and McKenzie,” Greg added sharply, before she could leave, “keep this to yourself, okay? At least until I know what we’re dealing with.”

“Yes, sir,” McKenzie replied, and she gave him a solemn nod before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Greg walked around his desk and settled himself in his chair, placing his coffee on its usual coaster and staring with narrowed eyes at the unfamiliar piles. There was one pile of ten or twelve Scotland Yard folders, and after hearing McKenzie’s story, he had his suspicions about how, exactly, those had come back to him via government courier. Next to that pile, there was a single large manila envelope that was sealed and clasped shut, with his name on it in large, clear printing. No address. It was clearly full of more paper; it looked as though it might burst at the seams.

Greg reached for the top folder on the tall stack first – and promptly froze as he caught sight of a post-it affixed to the front, with one sentence written in an elegant hand.

_Really, Lestrade, did I teach you nothing?_

Greg stared at the post-it and the folder for a full two minutes before recovering enough self-possession to get up and close the blinds. He went back to his seat and picked up the folder a second time with shaking hands, flipping it open to find the margins of the case file covered in notes, all in the same distinctive cursive. Folder after folder was the same – full of corrections, in the hand of a dead man.

Greg put his hands to his head, staring at the folders now strewn over his desk. “It’s not possible,” he breathed. In a moment of inspiration, he scrambled through the files again, looking at the dates. All of the cases were cold, with no leads – but most of them had happened _after_ Sherlock’s death.

Wild hope warred with disbelief and simmering anger. A cruel practical joke was more likely - someone who was smart enough to pick cold cases with the right dates – but the _writing._ Greg didn’t know of anyone who could forge handwriting that well; he had looked at so many of Sherlock’s notes over the years that he would know the detective’s handwriting anywhere.

He reached for the folder nearest his hand and began to read through the notes.

_Clearly a case of poisoning made to look like a suicide. The body was hanged afterward – the neck is bruised and the throat shows signs of strangulation, but the neck isn’t broken, nor is the trachea crushed. The blue lips were thought to be from lack of circulation and rigor mortis – but there were open windows in the room where she was hanging, which would have helped dissipate the smell, and blue lips can also be a sign of poisoning. Have Molly run the tox screen – probably cyanide. If sister has Pekinese, arrest sister._

And there, scrawled in the bottom corner of the page:

_– SH_

Just as Greg laid eyes on the familiar initials, his desk phone rang. The number was blocked, but that alone told Greg who it was. He took two deep breaths before picking up the handset.

“Mycroft,” he said shakily, “if this is your idea of a sick joke, or some strange scheme your brother came up with before he died so that he could have a little fun beyond the grave, I swear to God I don’t care _who_ you are or _how_ many governments you run, you will be sorry you ever drew breath.”

“You are letting your emotions interfere with what is before your eyes, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied, and it might have sounded condescending or smug, supercilious or bored – but it didn’t. Mycroft’s voice was soothing, reassuring, and the sound of it was so completely _unfamiliar_ that it was all Greg needed to hear to realize that the British Government was being sincere. “You know that most of those cold cases appeared after Sherlock’s death. You know that it is undeniably his handwriting in the files. You know that it was one of my couriers who brought the files – yes, you do, don’t bother to deny it. I wanted you to know. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, – ”

“– must be the truth. My God,” Greg said, his voice finally cracking with amazement and disbelief. “Are you telling me that _Sherlock_ is – that _Anderson_ was –”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, his voice still warm and calm. “Or rather, this is the way Sherlock chose to tell you, by providing you with information, and I am simply confirming what you already know. I thought a timely phone call might be . . . helpful. Mr. Anderson was right about the various cases he spotted that seemed to have Sherlock’s signature – surprising, that. I never would have expected it of him. There is much more that you don’t know, however. The manila envelope on your desk contains a classified file, one which you will be handing to Anthea the minute you have read it. A car will be there for you in an hour.”

“The manila envelope – Jesus, Mycroft, have you _bugged_ my office?” Greg said incredulously, glancing around for any signs of tampering he might have missed.

He could almost _hear_ the eyeroll on the other end of the phone, and in a way it was a relief for Mycroft to go back to normal so quickly. “The courier was one of _mine_ , Detective Inspector; of course I know what he brought you and where he was supposed to place it.” 

“Right. Sorry,” Greg muttered, running a hand over his face. “I’m still trying to process this.”

“I know it is a shock. It certainly was for me,” Mycroft added under his breath. “Gregory – read the file. It will go a long way toward explaining the reasons behind all of this.”

Hearing emotion from Mycroft Holmes was surprising enough all on its own, but to be addressed by his first name was one for the record books. Greg swallowed, touched by the gesture and knowing that if he commented on it, Mycroft would retreat into completely detached professionalism. “All right. One hour. And Mycroft – thank you,” he finished tentatively, unsure how it would be received.

“You’re welcome.” By the tone, Greg was almost certain that Mycroft was smiling as they hung up.

Greg took a long swallow of his coffee, then set about straightening the Yard files and putting them back into a pile. Much as he might want to stare at them for confirmation of the man’s existence, Sherlock’s notes would keep; the classified file would not. He undid the seal on the envelope and slid out a thick folder, bulging with notes and photographs, that was ominously clear of any markings or identification. Greg wondered just how many rules Mycroft was breaking by allowing him to see such a file. The better question was: what was inside it that Mycroft felt was so important for him to know?

Greg stood up and crossed to the door. McKenzie looked up as he emerged, and he crooked a finger at her, prompting her to hurriedly follow him back inside. Greg shut the door again immediately.

“Any trouble so far?” he asked, his voice low.

“No, sir. No one’s come looking for you,” McKenzie replied, her brow wrinkling in concern as she took in the seriousness of Greg’s voice and posture.

“Right. McKenzie, I’m going to leave here in an hour. Until then, absolutely no one comes into this office. Only you, me, and the Superintendent know about these files, and I’m the only one at the Yard who knows what’s in them, and it _has_ to stay that way. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” the officer promised. “What shall I say to anyone who asks where you are?”

“Just tell them that I’m out following a lead on the drugs ring,” Greg answered. “It won’t hold water for long, but it doesn’t need to; I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. If anything critically important happens, ring me, but I do mean critical, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Thank you for trusting me on this,” Greg said earnestly. He opened the door. “Off you go, then.”

McKenzie started to leave, but then hesitated and turned back, her hazel eyes clear and earnest as she looked at Greg. “You’re a good man, sir. I’m proud to be here.”

Greg blinked, taken aback, but then gave the sergeant a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that,” he answered. “Go on, now.”

McKenzie left, and Greg shut the door and locked it, taking another long drink of coffee before sitting down again and mustering enough willpower to open the strangely blank folder.

The next sixty minutes were the longest of Greg’s life, crawling by as if each minute were eons and flying at the speed of light at the same time, as he tried to absorb too much – far too much – earth-shattering information. The first item in the pile was a transcript of Sherlock’s conversation with Jim Moriarty, up on the roof of St. Bart’s – which meant that Sherlock had to have recorded it on his phone. The phone that John had insisted Sherlock had thrown on the roof. The phone Greg and his team had never found.

After reading through the transcript, Greg had to sit and breathe while tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and the reality of Sherlock’s apparent suicide came home to him. Sherlock had been forced to jump – but he had also been _willing_ to jump, had planned for it, had anticipated that he might have to give up his life, or at least take a very large risk with it, in order to save the people he loved. Greg was on that incredibly short, momentous list of people who Sherlock Holmes was willing to die for.

Greg carefully set that thought aside, like the precious jewel that it was, and forced himself to focus on the next piece of paper.

It was Sherlock’s death certificate. Greg had never actually seen it, and even seeing the copy of it was enough to nauseate him. However, attached to the death certificate were notes and photographs that Greg knew would only ever be seen by a handful of people in the world. The photographs were documentation of Sherlock’s injuries and his methods of self-preservation. Greg cringed at how primitive they were; the odds that Sherlock would come out of that fall with so few injuries were frighteningly low. It was nothing short of a miracle that he had not broken a limb, fractured his skull, or broken his neck. He had a sprained wrist and ankle, several cuts, and nasty bruises, but otherwise appeared to be unharmed.

The notes were in Molly Hooper’s writing.

Greg sucked in a breath. Of course. Who else would Sherlock have gone to for help? Who else would he have trusted to take care of him, to process the fake paperwork, to take photographs for Mycroft? And Molly would never have said a word; she was the soul of honor when she had made a promise.

The notes were a more detailed explanation of Molly’s post-fall examination and Sherlock’s injuries, of the detective’s rapid descent into shock (real, physical shock brought on by mental and physical trauma), his remarkable lack of resistance while Molly took photographs, and finally notes on the treatment Molly had provided. Once he had regained physical and mental control, Sherlock had apparently donned a disguise and disappeared with nothing more than a large duffel bag.

“Christ, Molls,” Greg sighed, suddenly understanding why his girlfriend had been so painfully quiet and sad anytime anyone mentioned Sherlock. She had sworn to Greg when they started dating that she wasn’t in love with Sherlock when he ‘died’; she had confessed to having a crush on him and said that she had learned to care for him as a friend. Greg had believed her and seen her grief as a reflection of his own. They were both Sherlock’s friends who were grieving for the brilliant man they had helped and cared for.

Now, however, Greg saw a completely different picture. Molly had known that Sherlock faked his death and had been carrying that burden completely alone; she knew he was alive after the fall, but must not have known whether he stayed alive after he disappeared. She would have been the one who patched up Sherlock’s injuries, who treated him and got him through the shock, and then she would have had to watch him disappear.

He couldn’t talk to her yet. Greg didn’t know if Sherlock had told her he was living, if Mycroft was giving her the same kind of access to privileged information, or if she was still in the dark for some other reason. He would find out whether it was safe to bring her in as soon as possible, but he would have his own secret to keep for just a little while.

He turned over the death certificate, notes, and photographs, and moved on to the next item.

What unfolded in front of him, through piece after piece of paper and photograph after photograph, was Sherlock’s quest to take down Jim Moriarty’s web of power – a quest that was, quite frankly, terrifying in its scope and its level of risk. There were documents proving the existence of every kind of illegal operation imaginable: drug smuggling, human trafficking, murder-for-hire, arms dealing, money laundering, art forgery, government computer hacking. There was apparently no kind of work the consulting criminal would refuse, as long as it was interesting enough and the price was right. Sherlock had sought to take out the key players, to make the web fall apart through lack of support. He had become both a one-man intelligence agency and an assassin, in the kind of covert operation that Greg, as an officer of the law, would never be able to officially condone.

Unofficially, it made him glad with a vicious sort of dark vengeance that someone had finally taken down everything Moriarty had created – nothing would ever convince him the madman deserved any sort of mercy - but it hurt him beyond words that it had to have been Sherlock who did it.

If anyone had asked Greg to describe his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the best he would have been able to come up with was “complicated,” unless he had several hours and possibly a drink over which to talk. Greg had first met Sherlock as a charismatic 29-year-old addict who looked years younger than he was and pestered Greg at crime scenes when he wasn’t getting high. Greg couldn’t say with certainty, even now, what it was that had made him want to befriend such an arrogant, irritating junkie. Sherlock insulted everyone, Greg included, even on his clean days – but every trail he ever put Greg on checked out. He remained cold and aloof ninety-nine percent of the time, but the occasional, fleeting look of shock when Greg was kind to him, or the rare, almost-silent “Thank you” at the end of a case gave Greg glimpses of a vulnerable, lonely genius who almost could not keep up with his own intellect and senses. Greg had begun keeping track of him, watching him for signs of using and withdrawal, demanding he stay clean if he wanted to help, and trying to make sure he went someplace safe at the end of the night. He had learned to care for Sherlock almost like a wayward younger brother, and he had, in rare instances, allied himself with Mycroft for exactly that reason. He knew why Mycroft worried so much because he did the same. Sherlock had taken to Greg better than he did to his brother, however, and the consulting detective repaid Greg for his help with an incredibly high close rate on his cases and, once in a blue moon, a compliment or a bit of a joke. Sherlock was many things, but he was not, by nature, a killer or a ruthless person. Greg only hoped that his year away had not damaged him irreparably.

Greg was almost relieved when a brisk knock at his door announced Anthea’s arrival. Mycroft’s enigmatic PA gave him a brief, almost sympathetic smile when he unlocked the door and opened it. “Ready to go?”

“Not like I have much of a choice, do I?” Greg groused, though his irritation was not really directed at Anthea at all, but at the high-handedness of certain government officials. Still, he was all too aware that the folder on his desk had to go back; its contents could implode national and international politics if anyone else saw them.

“Just let me get my coat,” he sighed, reaching over the back of his chair and picking up his blazer. He pulled it on, then pulled on his greatcoat after taking it from behind the door. He carefully assembled Mycroft’s file from the desk, checking to make sure that none of the paper remained on the desk’s surface, then turned and gave a nod to Anthea, who turned without a word and began walking briskly toward the elevator. Greg followed her, feeling his pulse pick up as he thought about what awaited him at Baker Street. He took out his phone and sent a text to Molly as he walked, desperately wanting to talk to her but knowing that it wasn’t going to happen for several hours.

_I love you. Something’s come up. I’ll call you a bit later._

He slid the phone back into his pocket just as the elevator door dinged open.

McKenzie’s phone beeped with an incoming text as Greg entered the elevator, and the Sergeant quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching, then turned her phone face up in her palm.

_Mr. Holmes sends his thanks. ~A_

McKenzie smiled.

* * *

Greg settled into the leather cushions of a government car that positively made him twitch with how expensive it was, but he had more pressing things on his mind. He kept his hands tightly clasped around the folder as he held it out to Anthea.

“Look, um, I know you’re not supposed to talk about this,” Greg said awkwardly, “but I also know that you’ve seen the entire  contents of this folder, and that there is probably plenty of it you didn’t have to see because you were there, helping Mycroft help Sherlock. If you could just tell me – was it as bad as it looks?”

Anthea really looked at him then, putting her Blackberry down and taking the folder from him, setting it on the seat beside her. Her eyes were sad.

“Yes,” she confirmed quietly. “It was.”

Greg swallowed hard and nodded, turning his face away.

 He looked out the window for the remainder of the ride to Baker Street.

* * *

Molly walked into work that same Monday feeling drained. She hadn’t slept well, her sleep disturbed by dreams about Sherlock and John, the latter looking old and so very broken, the former a shadow always just out of sight. Not for the first time, she cursed the uncanny perception that made her so good – too good, sometimes – at reading others. It could be a gift, but in other moments it was a terrible burden.

She had burnt her toast, run one of her stockings, and misplaced her keys before she even left her flat, and those things combined meant that she didn’t have time to stop for her regular morning coffee. (There was only so much hospital coffee she could drink.) She had still managed to leave her usual morning message for Greg – because she slept later than he did and was on the late shift at the morgue, they usually spoke in person for the first time when one of them managed to take their lunch – but she knew he would be concerned by the anxiety and fatigue in her voice. Then, just as she had gotten off the tube, she had gotten Greg’s text, which only added to her worry. He was fine; he would have told her if something had happened to him, but he was clearly anxious and upset, which didn’t help her mood at all. He never texted her before their first talk unless something fairly serious had happened.

A brief smile crossed her face as she walked into the Bart’s lab; Greg was a good man. He was excellent at his job and funny and sweet, and she was on her way to being very much in love with him. _He might be the one good thing that has come out of this whole terrible year_ , she decided as she began perusing her list for the day.

An object on one of the lab tables caught her eye in her peripheral vision and she frowned. She had made sure those tables were clean and clear last night. Going over, she saw that it was actually two objects: a large, steaming cup of her favorite coffee from the coffee shop three blocks away, and a basket full of scones and croissants that were –

Molly paused as she realized exactly where those scones were from. Raspberry and white chocolate, her favorite, and Dr. Watson had always brought them in for her when Mrs. Hudson made some. She picked up the piece of paper that sat on top of the baked goods with shaking fingers.

_Come to Baker Street when you can, Molly. We’ve missed you.  – SH_

Molly read it twice before its meaning truly registered in her mind. Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

* * *

No matter how well you thought you knew people, John reflected, they were always capable of surprising you. Greg and Molly’s reactions had been almost precisely the opposite of what John and Sherlock had predicted.

Greg had shown up first, mid-morning. Sherlock had been standing at the window with his violin, playing in front of John for the first time, and his playing had abruptly stopped as his shoulders stiffened. “Mycroft shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Then, “ _Oh_. It’s Lestrade.”

His shoulders had tensed up even more as he turned around, and he set his Stradivarius gently on the sofa. Both he and John faced the door as they heard Mrs. Hudson open the door below and the DI’s steps hurriedly ascend the stairs.

The flat door opened, and Greg’s eyes went straight to Sherlock as he stepped over the threshold. John felt a pang of sadness and sympathy as he looked at Greg; the DI looked terrible and had clearly been crying.

Greg crossed the room in three strides and flung his arms around Sherlock, who stilled in surprise before tentatively putting his arms around Greg in return.

“ _Sherlock_. God,” Greg said into his shoulder. John could see Greg’s fingers gripping for all they were worth at the fabric of Sherlock’s suit jacket, and he permitted himself a small smile. Despite the disastrous end of the events with Moriarty, he had never doubted Greg’s affection for and protectiveness of Sherlock, and here was proof positive of how much Greg cared. Sherlock, for his part, was also hugging Greg rather tightly, and John’s smile widened as he noticed that.

Sherlock, not quite over his startlement at Greg’s reaction, cleared his throat without releasing his hold. “Lestrade. Greg,” he corrected himself quietly. “I . . .”

Sherlock didn’t finish, clearly not sure what he could say that would make anything better. Luckily, Greg saved Sherlock from having to find words. He loosened his grip and took a step back, still resting his hands on Sherlock’s biceps.

“You _mad_ bugger,” Greg said vehemently. “Don’t you ever do anything like this again, do you hear me?  If you are going to save my life, you tell me; you let me help and you let me protect you. You don’t dive off a building for me or go after international assassins and criminals for me, for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock was watching Greg intently, taking in Greg’s voice and posture and (John was sure) a million more things besides, and he waited patiently for the end of Greg’s tirade before shaking his head.

“There wasn’t time,” he whispered. “If there had been any other way, if I had found any other way, Greg, don’t you think I would have used it? I was out-maneuvered, and once I realized that I could disappear and go after his network, secrecy was paramount. You’ve seen the file; you know I never could have done it if anyone had known I was alive.”

Greg finally released Sherlock’s arms, only to scrub his hands over his face. “I don’t even want to know how you know that,” he said tiredly. “And yes, I know. I also know I wasn’t your primary concern” – and here Greg exchanged his first real glance with John, giving the doctor a smile – “but it doesn’t work like this, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“Then how does it work?” Sherlock inquired, his voice a little firmer and surer now. “I was not going to stand by and let you be killed, Lestrade.” John noticed the shift back to Greg’s last name, and he could see the DI did, too. It was delivered in Sherlock’s best “don’t-be-an-idiot” voice, if less stridently than usual. “You saved my life years ago and now I have saved yours, which seems like a much more equitable arrangement. John is – John is everything,” he admitted, stumbling a little over the words, “but you are part of my family, too. We protect each other, do we not?”

Sherlock’s voice trailed off at the end, and the frail vulnerability that John had seen so often in the past week came over his face again. Greg’s expression softened as he looked at Sherlock, and he drew the detective into another hug.

“Yes. Yes, we do,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. “And I’m so thankful for what you did, but I’m even more thankful to have you back alive and in one piece. Don’t do it again; I mean it. None of us can take it.”

“I have every intention of staying here and staying alive for as long as possible,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking upward as he threw a glance at John over Greg’s shoulder.

Greg released Sherlock and looked between him and John, grinning widely now. “I’ll just bet you do.” John blushed, and Greg winked at him before moving toward the door. “I have to get back to the office, but – have you told Molly?”

“She knows,” John nodded, speaking aloud for the first time. “She hasn’t been by yet, but she knows, especially since it’s . . .” John quickly checked his watch, “half twelve. Whatever file you’ve seen, though, I would bet money that she hasn’t and won’t,” he added, arching a brow at Sherlock in a silent question. The detective nodded in confirmation.

“No, she hasn’t. Use your discretion, Greg. I would imagine there is quite a bit your girlfriend shouldn’t know and probably more that she won’t want to know,” Sherlock said solemnly, and he was quite serious, but Greg paused again and looked at him, raising his brows. Sherlock stared at him in puzzlement before realizing what he was silently asking, and he sighed in exasperation.

“Honestly, Lestrade. There are traces of her perfume on your coat, one of her hairs on your collar, and some of her cat’s hairs on your trouser cuff. And to answer your earlier question, you arrived in one of Mycroft’s cars. Hardly a difficult leap to conclude you’d seen the file.”

Another grin had bloomed on Greg’s face as Sherlock talked, and he simply shook his head as Sherlock finished. “God, it’s good to have you back. Anderson’s going to go off his nut; he’s been swearing to everyone that you were alive for the last ten months.”

John gaped. “Sorry, _Anderson_? Anderson’s been swearing that Sherlock’s alive?”

Greg nodded. “I know it sounds crazy,” the DI said. “He felt terrible about what happened; it never occurred to him that you would kill yourself over what everyone was saying,” he continued, addressing Sherlock in turn. “After you died – after you pretended to die, I mean,” Greg corrected himself, “Anderson got out every file from every case you’d ever worked and went back over all of the evidence himself. Every bit of it. He figured out that basically every deduction you’d ever made was backed up by the facts and the forensic evidence. It was because of him that we were able to clear your name, but – he spent all of his time doing that instead of attending to his regular workload, and he ended up getting fired for it,” Greg continued sadly. “I couldn’t do much about it, at the time. Since then he’s been hunting up every obscure case mentioned in the international news, and he insisted that he had found a series of cases that all conformed to your pattern, and that clearly showed you were coming back home from wherever you had been. I would imagine he’s right about at least some of them.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows were hitting his hairline. “Well, apparently there is some hope for him after all.”

Greg snorted, rolling his eyes. “Nice to know the git I actually _missed_ is still in there somewhere,” he said. “You might give him some credit, you know, considering it was all his work that forced the Yard to clear you. And the bastards fired him for it, since they didn’t want to admit they actually needed your help in the first place.”

“I give him plenty of credit,” Sherlock retorted easily, far too innocently. “Of course, losing his job in order to make me into some kind of public martyr was probably not the wisest move, but I’m grateful for his efforts on my behalf.”

“Twat,” Greg said affectionately. “Go easy on him, yeah? Hard as it might be to believe, he actually did feel awful.”

Sherlock’s sarcastic demeanor softened into a quiet smile that clearly signaled he had only been winding Greg up. It made John want to kiss him. “I’ll find a way to thank him. I’ve learned not to take my allies for granted, no matter how . . . unconventional they may be.”

Greg gave him an approving nod before turning to the doctor. “John, mate, meet me at the pub tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely,” John agreed. “I’m sure we’ll be talking to you before then; Mycroft’s somehow handling the media circus this is going to create.”

“See you soon, then,” Greg said, and with a wave he was down the stairs, his steps jaunty and cheerful.

“Well, that went better than I hoped,” Sherlock said with another a small smile.

John gave into his impulses and strode over to Sherlock to kiss him deeply, eliciting a noise of surprise from Sherlock before he returned the kiss enthusiastically.

 “I love you,” he murmured breathlessly when they pulled apart.

“I love you,” Sherlock replied, slightly dazed. “What was that for?”

“You let Greg know that he’s family,” John said. “You let him know he matters. Not that he wouldn’t know, after seeing Mycroft’s file, but you actually said it aloud. Do you have any idea how much that meant to him?”

“I think so,” Sherlock admitted. “I – these things do not come easily, after so long, but while I was away – there was a point after which I simply couldn’t – compartmentalize anymore. I had perfected keeping my emotions under lock and key, and then – they were everywhere, and I couldn’t – separate them,” Sherlock finished unsteadily.

The silence that fell was heavy after Sherlock’s confession, and John swallowed, waiting. He didn’t want to imagine what had happened to Sherlock that had caused him to lose control of his perfectly ordered Mind Palace. In a way, John was grateful – he had always thought that Sherlock keeping his emotions buried so deeply couldn’t possibly be healthy, though he himself had little ground to stand on in that regard – but to a mind as disciplined as Sherlock’s, such a breach of his normal control mechanisms could have left lasting damage.

“You haven’t asked about the file,” Sherlock ventured carefully, and John shook his head decisively.

“Nope. I won’t. Mycroft obviously felt Greg needed to know the whole picture, and maybe there are legal reasons for that and maybe not, maybe there are just familial ones because Mycroft and Greg have always looked out for you, but I only want to know as much as you want to tell me. I’m never going to press you for information, Sherlock. I know enough to know that it was terrible, and that’s all I need to know.”

Sherlock drew him close. “Thank you.”

* * *

Molly arrived about three hours after Greg, surprising them both. When Sherlock had become too physically tired to continue playing his violin, he had migrated to the couch. Still lying much more carefully than his usual sprawl, he was resting his head in John’s lap and had slipped into a light sleep, until there was an agitated pounding at the lower door. In the next minute they heard Mrs. Hudson’s anxious tones, then Molly’s voice, low and angry.

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock as Molly’s steps came flying up the stairs, and they had both just gained their feet when she appeared in the doorway. One glance was enough to tell them that she was furious. Her hair was mussed as though she had been running her hands through it, her lips were pressed into a thin line, and she was trembling like a leaf.

She barely paused in the doorway to confirm Sherlock’s presence and send a glare at him before launching herself straight at him, and Sherlock’s eyes widened as he instinctively stepped back.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she exclaimed angrily, “don’t you ever, ever, _ever_ do something like that to me again! It was cold and cruel and unfeeling, leaving me wondering for a year if you were alive or dead! Making me keep secrets from Greg and John, making me watch John _suffer_!”

Molly punctuated her wrath by balling her hands into fists and beating at Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock winced involuntarily, trying to avoid the blows. John moved closer in alarm, but Sherlock gave him a quick look that both reassured him and warned him away. Sherlock managed to catch Molly’s hands and look into her face, and that was all it took for her to collapse.

“How could you?” she wept as Sherlock’s arms went around her. “How could you just leave me to _wonder_ , and not know? To watch Greg grieving for you?  Forcing Greg and me to watch John _killing_ himself by inches, working himself to death because he was so empty without you? You are _heartless_ , Sherlock Holmes, leaving me in the dark like that!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Molly,” Sherlock murmured, hugging Molly more tightly as she cried. “I could have told you I was alive one day and it might have been a lie the next, and I did not want to put you in any more danger. I’m sorry.”

“I am _livid_ with you,” Molly sniffled, her voice cracking. “You don’t deserve forgiveness, you insufferable posh prat.”

John choked on a laugh before he could stop himself, and both Sherlock and Molly turned toward him at the noise. He shook his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to try and contain his mirth.

“I just – I never thought I’d see the day where you would call him _names_ , Molly,” he said with a helpless giggle.

Sherlock looked over at John and then down at Molly, his eyes dancing. “He has a point.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Molly huffed in frustration. “You two are impossible. Don’t you dare come into my morgue for at least two weeks, either of you.  I won’t be responsible for what I do to you.” She gave another angry shove at Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to free herself from the circle of his arms, and he sobered again, catching her before she could get away.

“I am sorry, Molly, truly. I never would have succeeded in faking my death if it wasn’t for you, and I owe you more than I can ever repay,” he said earnestly. “You are – invaluable, Molly Hooper. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise, ever again.”

Before Molly could respond, Sherlock leaned in and gently kissed her cheek. She stared up at him with wide, still slightly damp eyes, and then buried her face in his shoulder again.

“I am so angry, but I’m so glad you’re alive,” she said, her muffled voice hitching with another small sob. She gave Sherlock a quick hug and then stepped back, raising her chin and staring at him defiantly.

“No coming to the morgue. I mean it. I don’t think John would let you anyway because you look terrible, but I don’t want to see your face. Don’t you dare. You stay home and get well and let me _process_ this. And when you come back, we’ll be fine.”

Sherlock regarded her gravely, and John could see his mind working as he surveyed every nuance of Molly’s expression. It only took him perhaps fifteen seconds before he nodded. “Understood.”

Molly nodded back firmly, then looked to John. “John, would you walk me to the door?”

John was surprised by the request, but he couldn’t tell precisely why she had asked, so he simply acquiesced. “Sure,” he answered with a smile, and he followed Molly’s determined tread down the stairs, after throwing a quick, reassuring glance at Sherlock, who appeared slightly bewildered.

At the bottom of the stairs, Molly turned to John. “I’m happy for you both,” she said softly. “I want you to know that. I can – I can see it in the way you look at each other.”

John hugged her unabashedly, not caring at all anymore that she’d had a part in deceiving him. She had helped Sherlock, helped him live through something terrible, and that was all that mattered.

“Thank you, Molly,” John said earnestly. “For everything. I’m so grateful he had your help. I thought I might be angry – I _was_ angry, the first time I saw him – but if he had to disappear in order to save my life, to save our lives, I’m glad he had you to help him.”

Tears slipped down Molly’s cheeks again. “He asked. He never asks anyone for help, and he asked. What else could I do? God, John, if you could have seen him when he left . . . he was torn apart over you. Please remember that. It – it devastated him to leave you, as much as it hurt you to lose him. He won’t say it, I don’t think, so I wanted to say it for him.”

John hugged her again, unexpectedly moved by her loyal determination. She had no idea it was unnecessary, and it meant the world to John that she cared enough to try and mend things between him and Sherlock.  “Thank you. We’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

“Okay,” Molly agreed, giving him a shaky smile. She gave a little wave as she stepped down onto the sidewalk of Baker Street, and John smiled at her before closing the door and going back upstairs to Sherlock.

* * *

Half a dozen paces down the sidewalk, Molly pulled out her phone and texted Greg, swiping at the tears that were still on her face.

_Have you seen him? Do you know?_

Greg’s reply was almost instantaneous, as she had known it would be; if he knew about Sherlock, he would be waiting for her to contact him.

**Saw him this morning. Bit overwhelmed, but so happy he’s alive. You?**

_Just left. I’m . . . mixed up. Dinner?_

She could picture Greg’s worried face as he read her comment, the crinkle between his eyebrows that meant he was concerned, the slight downward turn of his mouth. She wished she could see him right this minute, but hopefully they could do the next best thing.

**Sure. I can come to the morgue, as long as something doesn’t come up. Curry?**

_That would be lovely. :) 7:30?_

**I should be able to manage that. I’ll call when I’m on my way over.**

_Thanks. I love you._

**Love you too, Molls. See you soon.**

Molly smiled, her heart lightening just a little as she read Greg’s text. They had only recently declared their feelings for each other, one lovely night at Greg’s a little over two months ago, and seeing or hearing the words never failed to warm her.

 _Definitely the best thing to happen this year_ , she thought as she descended into the Baker St. tube station.

* * *

The afternoon dragged. Molly did her best to put aside her swirling emotions and simply work – she had a whole list of corpses that needed to be processed, some unidentified and some who were patients at the hospital before their deaths. She began with the unidentified ones – somehow, today, that was easier. Trying to identify a body always made her feel as though she was doing something good, possibly giving closure to a relative or a whole family. Occasionally, it didn’t turn out that way; some families were estranged from or indifferent to a person they hadn’t seen in years, but for the most part, knowing that their loved one was at peace meant something to whoever remained.

She didn’t get to the hospital patients until about two hours before Greg was supposed to be there, and after the first one, she couldn’t help but think that was a good thing. Every body was Sherlock’s; every cause of death was something that could have killed him, something that she had imagined in the 365 days of fearing he was dead. Bullet wounds, a wide array of illnesses, food poisoning, drowning – too many types of death to think about. Worrying that he would die alone in some horrible way – believing, eventually, that he _had_ died without the presence of anyone he loved - had been almost unbearable, and inexplicably, it hurt even more now that he’d had the temerity to come back alive.

When the door of the morgue opened to admit Greg, carrying two bags of fragrant Indian food, Molly set down her instruments with a grateful sigh. As soon as he had safely set the food in her office, Molly went to him and nestled into his shoulder.

“Hey, love,” he said gently, holding her close and stroking her back. “That bad, eh?”

“That bad,” Molly affirmed, her voice shaking. “He’s alive, Greg. He’s _alive_ , and he didn’t tell me, or you, or John. He let us believe he was dead, he left us grieving for him, and I’m so angry at him and so happy he’s back, all at once. I don’t know what to feel.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Greg agreed. “But he did it _for_ us, too, Molls. You can’t forget that. I can’t. I never would have thought he cared enough about me to do something so –”

“Dangerous?” Molly suggested sarcastically. “Foolish?”

“Selfless,” Greg corrected tenderly. “So selfless. I saw the file on what he did for an hour today, and I’ll never see it again because Mycroft has it in some secret government vault, but I can’t even begin to describe to you what he’s been through in the last year, Molly. He gave up absolutely everything in order to keep us alive, and I only hope that he and John can help each other heal.”

“Tell me,” Molly requested, her voice softening.

Greg kissed the top of her head, then looked down at her somberly. “I’ll only say this, because there are parts of that file that would give you nightmares, love. He killed people. He wore an incredible number of disguises. He lived on the streets and in apartments that should have been condemned, as well as in the occasional fancy hotel. He was hurt quite badly in a couple of fights, when he was trying to avoid being caught. He saw every single thing that sick psychopath of a crime lord had going in his empire, and I don’t know how he’s ever going to erase some of it from his Mind Palace.”

“Oh, God,” Molly murmured, squeezing her eyes shut and pulling Greg closer. She wanted to burrow under his skin just to feel safe again; she didn’t want to think about this. “But he’s – he’s not –”

“No, he’s not,” Greg agreed quietly. “He shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

He pulled back and gave Molly a soft kiss on the lips before reaching for the food bags. “Now you tell me,” he requested. “I understand that you’re angry because you didn’t know, because you spent a year thinking you had let him walk away and he died,” Greg continued, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. “But what else has you so tangled up?”

Molly sighed, taking a bite of her food and chewing it pensively. “It’s mostly that,” she acknowledged. “I just – I can’t stop thinking about that last day, when he left. I had to tell all of you he was dead, and I keep seeing John’s face, and Sherlock _cried_ , Greg. He cried for John and he held my hand, and then he changed into someone else and left. And when I say changed – I knew he was good at disguises, but he was unrecognizable. I felt so – so scared, watching him go, and we’ve all been living with this emptiness for a year, thinking he was dead. I knew a little bit more than the rest of you, but not much. And so now that he’s back, I – I’m angry with him for inflicting that on us, even though I know why he did it. Even though I never could have been brave enough to do the same. It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Molly said in frustration, stabbing at her curry.

“Well, first of all, I think you’re wrong about yourself,” Greg said warmly, and Molly looked up to see him smiling. “You are incredibly brave when it comes to people you care about. It took courage to do what you did for him. Second, I think being angry makes plenty of sense, even when you’re relieved. He’s alive, so that means he’s here and you _can_ be angry with him. Before, you didn’t have that, and now you do. It doesn’t make you a bad person, love – if anything, I’d say being angry is a symptom of how relieved you are. I’d be angry, too, I think, except I’m so grateful he’s breathing and that he saved my life that I can’t find any anger.”

Greg’s sympathetic tone and his simple explanation soothed Molly’s nerves like a warm balm. She hadn’t entirely understood her own reaction this morning, and having Greg make sense of it in his practical way was immensely comforting.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I know how much you care for him, and how much it hurt you to lose him – I was angry on your behalf, too, I think. And John’s. But it helps to know that I’m not just finally cracking under it all. I _am_ relieved – so much so I want to cry with it – _did_ cry with it, when Sherlock or one of his network snuck in Mrs. Hudson’s scones this morning,” Molly finished with a trembling laugh.

Greg drew her into his arms again, resting his chin on her head. “You can cry all you want,” he said. “I’ll never tell.”

Molly laughed, but it was partly a sob, too, and she leaned in to kiss the hollow of Greg’s throat. “You are an amazing man, Greg Lestrade,” she told him, and then she simply let herself be held.

* * *

_Molly walked slowly back into the morgue, tears still on her cheeks._

_The look on John Watson’s face when she’d pronounced Sherlock dead was one she would remember until the end of her days._

_She had left the detective himself sitting curled up on the gurney, looked dazed and still covered in the blood that wasn’t his own. She had wanted to examine him, because God only knew what he had done to himself in that plunge off the roof, but he had appeared able to move under his own power, at least.  He had entreated her to pronounce his death as quickly as was reasonable. The charade had to be kept up; it had to be faultless in order for everyone to believe what had happened._

_She focused on Sherlock as she neared him, and she noted with alarm that he was shaking rather severely. He looked at her, his eyes almost fearful as he struggled to control his uncooperative limbs._

_“Molly – I can’t stop shaking. Why can’t I stop shaking?” he asked, and her heart cracked at the confusion on his face and the uncharacteristic repetition._

_“It’s shock, Sherlock,” she said gently, moving swiftly to his side. “Real shock. You’ve never experienced it before?”_

_He shook his head, still struggling to overcome his body’s reaction to such a traumatic fall._

_“Lie back. It’s all right,” Molly said reassuringly, pressing on his shoulder to get him to lie down. She pulled the heavy wool blanket from the bottom of the gurney and covered him with it as he rearranged his uncooperative limbs, finally managing to lie on his back. She took a second blanket and tucked it under his feet so that they were elevated._

_“What hurts?” Molly prompted him, praying that it was something she could actually help with, and not something so serious that he should have extended medical attention. He was still shaking, but she wanted to give him something else to focus on; the shock would lessen with a little time._

_“My left ankle. Right wrist. A cut or two, somewhere,” Sherlock responded vaguely, woodenly, and Molly’s worry went up another level when she noticed the glassiness in his eyes._

_“No, no, no, Sherlock, stay with me. You have to stay with me, do you understand?” Molly said urgently, shaking his shoulder. “I’m not going to know what’s wrong with you if you pass out on me, and I can’t diagnose internal bleeds on the living. You have got to try your hardest to stay awake. I’m not John, and I don’t have his skills, do you hear me?”_

_She regretted mentioning John almost the moment the words left her lips, for Sherlock’s eyes became even emptier, though he seemed to be focusing inwards, not losing consciousness._

_“John. God, John. What have I done?” he said hollowly. “He sounded so – I’ve never heard him sound like that, Molly. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that, he wasn’t – John never sounds like that,” he finished brokenly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, reaching blindly toward Molly. She saw the tears slide out from the corners of his eyes and had to swallow down her own as she grasped his hand._

_“Ssh. It’s all right. John will be all right,” she tried to soothe him, stroking her free hand through his curls. How many times had she wanted to do that? – and now that she was, it was tearing her heart out for the wrongness of it, for she wasn’t really the person Sherlock needed or wanted. This had to be the way a mother felt when her child was experiencing pain that it was utterly beyond her power to fix. “John is a soldier; he has survived so much death. He will survive this, too. I promise, Sherlock. He will survive this, too.”_

_She continued to reassure Sherlock while he cried, silently, and his shivering subsided, and then she coaxed him through letting her take photographs and through bandaging up his sprained limbs and the bleeding scrapes on his arms and hands. By the time she finished patching him up, the shock had passed and he had regained his emotional and most of his physical control. She watched as he retrieved one of the bags that he had stashed in the morgue earlier, and as he became utterly unrecognizable under layers of clothing, makeup, and hair dye.  
_

_Just before he left, now a close-cropped blond with brown eyes who was wearing clothing that looked like it belonged to a college-aged skateboarder, he took her hands and gave them a quick squeeze. It was slightly awkward, but Molly could tell it was sincere._

_“Thank you, Molly. For everything,” he said quietly. She could still see the pain in his eyes, but he was burying it with determination and analytical thinking._

_“You’re welcome,” she replied. She pressed a small plastic bottle into his hand. “Take these. They’re painkillers – from my purse, not the hospital supply.  You might need them for a few days. And don’t worry about John. We’ll all look after him, you know.” She couldn’t tell him the truth – that John might survive, but in seeking to save John Watson’s life, Sherlock may very well have broken the doctor’s heart._

_Sherlock tucked the bottle into a pocket, and Molly leaned forward and hugged him hard, hoping that he would remember, somewhere in that massive brain, that no matter how far away he went, there were people who cared about him._

_He hugged her back carefully, still rather awkwardly, then nodded and picked up his second bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to amble out of the morgue, already slipping into his adopted persona, but as he placed his hand on the door, Molly called him back._

_“Sherlock,” she said, and he turned his head._

_“Be careful. Come home,” she told him, willing her voice not to break._

_A long look, a firm nod, and he was gone._

 

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have some intimate time together, Mummy Holmes makes an appearance, and Sherlock returns to the public eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _Sherlock_ ; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> **Author’s Note:** It has been a long time, all. I know. I appreciate anyone who is still reading this, and any new readers who enjoy it! As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who have been my saviors on this story. My apologies for any mistakes in the French; I took quite a lot of it in school, but relied on Google Translate here, and the translation seemed fairly accurate.

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Nine**

 

I am in need of music that would flow  
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,  
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,  
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.  
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,  
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,  
A song to fall like water on my head,  
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!  
  
There is a magic made by melody:  
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool  
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep  
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,  
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,  
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

~Elizabeth Bishop

 

The morning after Greg and Molly’s visits, John awoke feeling relaxed and warm but very aware, as though his body knew something before his brain did. As he began to register the pale sunlight in the room and the sound of early morning London traffic, he realized that soft lips were pressing murmured phrases into his skin.

Sherlock had curled up behind him in the night, his body spooning John’s, and now he was kissing every bit of John’s bare torso he could reach. Sherlock must have started with John’s shoulder and begun working his way down; at the moment, Sherlock was at the bottom of John’s shoulder blades, kissing each vertebrae of his spine.

“Jean. Mon soldat, mon médecin. Vous me guérir et me défendre. Mon champion, ma maison. Vous êtes si courageux, et vous me faites plus courageux et plus sage. Mon écrivain, mon cœur. Je t'aime. Je ne pourrai jamais te quitter. Je te veux à mes côtés toujours, à chaque instant de chaque jour.”

It took John another second or two to realize why the quiet sentences were not familiar. Sherlock was speaking in French, and although John had no idea what the whispered words meant, the loving tone behind them was unmistakable. The movement of Sherlock’s mouth against his back sent desire coursing through John, leaving him trembling with arousal, while the tenderness of Sherlock’s endearments made him feel impossibly safe and loved.

John reached blindly behind himself, searching for Sherlock’s skin and landing on the detective’s shoulder, squeezing gently and trying to find his voice.

“Sherlock,” he sighed. “Come up here, love, and tell me what you were saying.”

He felt Sherlock smile before his best friend worked his way back up the bed, tucking himself in behind John and nestling his head on John’s shoulder, so that his mouth was near John’s ear.

“Didn’t take French in school, John?” Sherlock teased, his voice still soft but full of amusement.

“Latin, as you well know,” John retorted, grinning. “What else would I have taken when I wanted to be a doctor?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock acknowledged. He ran a warm hand up John’s side and back down again, continuing the motion as he translated for John.

“John. My soldier, my doctor. You heal me and defend me. My champion, my home. You are so brave, and you make me braver and wiser. My writer, my heart. I love you. I will never leave you again. I want you by my side always, every moment of every day.”

John twisted around so that he was facing Sherlock and pulled him into a deep kiss.

“I will never leave you, either, you know,” he said roughly, once they stopped kissing long enough to breathe. Their foreheads were pressed together, and the crystalline brightness of Sherlock’s eyes filled his vision. “I haven’t actually said that, and it occurs to me that I should. I hope you know it.”

“I do know it,” Sherlock returned quietly. “You never did, after all. My loyal doctor, even when you thought me dead.” He paused, and when he spoke again it was barely audible. “I don’t deserve you, John Watson.”

John shook his head. “You absolutely do,” he answered, his voice just as quiet. “Don’t ever doubt that, Sherlock. Your ‘death’ hurt me terribly, but if Stamford hadn’t called out to me that day in the park, if he hadn’t dragged me to meet you, I don’t know that I would have had a life at all. I meant it when I said you saved me; I meant it quite literally.”

Sherlock pulled back to look at John fully. A stranger would not have seen how appalled and shaken he was, but John knew him well enough to read the emotions behind the still planes of his face.

“When I came back from Afghanistan,” John went on, determined to get the worst out now that he had started, “I was in that bedsit every morning and every evening, with no definitive purpose, nothing happening or likely to happen, a limp in my leg, pain in my shoulder, and a head full of nightmares. And every morning and evening, I stared at the gun in my desk drawer and wondered if I should use it.”

“John,” Sherlock began, but he couldn’t finish. He swallowed hard, shaking his head infinitesimally.

“That was why, when you – left,” John explained, hesitating a bit as he found the words, “I tried to keep going. You had given me my life back, and it seemed like the height of ungratefulness to – waste that. I couldn’t stomach the idea of giving up, no matter how empty everything seemed without you. But you see, I’m not as brave as you’ve made me out to be.”

Sherlock shook his head again before leaning in to kiss John hard. “You are,” he said fiercely. “You _are_ , John. There is a difference between fighting an enemy you can see, or fighting wounds and infections you can identify, and trying to rebuild your life against forces that are outside of your control. You had been through trauma – multiple traumas, really, both physical and mental. There should have been people to help you, and the fact that there were none is not your fault.”

“Well, there was Ella, but I didn’t exactly make life easy for her,” John acknowledged, making a mental note that he should really thank his therapist one of these days, show his appreciation in some way.

“Not the kind of help you needed,” Sherlock scoffed. “Both Mycroft and I saw that right away.”

John grinned. “I just needed _you_ , obviously,” he teased. “My own personal whirlwind, with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed airily, not quite able to hide his smile. “Being my blogger meant you had danger and adrenaline, but also the need for your healing skills, the ability to be useful, all wrapped up in one impossibly attractive package.”

John snorted. “Did you just call yourself impossibly attractive? I might have to put that on a mug or something. Post it on the blog as another example of your charming personality.”

They both broke down then, giggling into each other’s shoulders for several minutes before they got themselves back under control.

“There’s more than a bit of truth to it, though,” John said finally, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Just as there is more than a bit of truth to the idea that I needed _you_ – a doctor and a soldier, someone who could handle danger and criminals as well as my neglect and abuse of my transport and my propensity not to sleep. That we share the same macabre sense of humor doesn’t hurt, either.”

“But you are so much more than your intellect and your cases, love,” John said, nuzzling his nose. “I love your mind when you are working, but it is only one part of all the things that make you amazing.”

Sherlock held him more tightly. “I am just – grateful,” and he swallowed once more, struggling for words, “that my – deception did not cause you to think about – that – again. God, John, if I had known –”

“But you didn’t know,” John interrupted. “You didn’t know, you couldn’t have known.” He kissed Sherlock reassuringly.

“I should have known,” Sherlock berated himself angrily. “I should have known. What happened at Bart’s put you through even more trauma – it could have caused you irreparable harm! A permanent mental break –”

“Stop,” John commanded gently, pressing the tips of two fingers to Sherlock’s lips. “Stop, love. I’m here, and so are you, and while I’m sure I will blow up at you in the not-so-distant future for taking such enormous risks on that day, right now I refuse to let you blame yourself with what-ifs. You did the best you could in circumstances that were almost impossible to deal with, and you came back to me. I asked you to stop being dead, and you did, and that is the greatest gift I could ever be given. And if nothing else, your death forced me to face up to a lot of truths I had been hiding from. I couldn’t talk to Ella about you, but in between all the hours I worked, I did talk to her about other things. My parents. Harry. Why I seemed to need the army and its adrenaline rush so badly. I’m a bit of a gambler at heart, it seems – I like risk, and the focus that comes with it, and I doubt that’s ever going to change. But I don’t need it so badly, now; it’s not the only thing keeping me sane. Talking about it all hurt like hell, and it’s not something I’d want to go through again, but it was – a relief. I knew, by the end of it, that I loved you for you, and all of the tiny things about you because they were part of you, and not solely because you were my own personal adrenaline rush.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. He buried his face in John’s hair, and John realized that it must be easier for him to say whatever it was he wanted to say without looking into John’s face.

“There was one time when I came very, very close to being caught,” he started. “In my defense, I was exhausted and freezing; Moscow in the winter is enough to kill anyone, even when one isn’t chasing international assassins and criminals. However, I had tracked down the man who was one of Moriarty’s main suppliers in child trafficking. I had meant to simply kill him from a distance, but he caught sight of me and somehow knew who I was, even through my disguise. Word may have reached him, by then, that someone was picking off remnants of Moriarty’s organization, even if he didn’t realize it was Sherlock Holmes who was chasing him. In any event, we ended up facing off and fighting hand to hand, in a dank cellar with all manner of pipes and boards and tools to beat each other with.”

John shuddered, wrapping his arms more closely around Sherlock’s torso, although he was still careful not to put too much pressure on the detective’s injuries. He laid a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s breastbone, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

“At one point he had me flat on my back on the floor and backed into a corner; I was sure he was going to bash my head in,” Sherlock went on, his voice carefully blank. “I managed to kick him in the chest with both feet, which winded him for just long enough that I could get to the knife at my ankle. I stabbed him in the femoral artery.”

John had to suppress another shudder; it was a quick but ugly way to die, bleeding out through the major artery in the right leg. He had seen many men die that way in Afghanistan, shot in the leg with terrible accuracy. The thought of Sherlock doing something so brutal was unbearably painful, but it told John even more about what Sherlock had been through and the kind of killer he had been required to become during his absence.

“He is responsible for several of the scars on my back, and that nasty slash on my collarbone,” Sherlock continued. “I hit my head in that fight, as well, though thankfully not hard enough to leave me concussed. I hurt all over, though, and had to drag myself back to the little hovel of a hotel where I was staying. Fortunately the proprietors didn’t care about their guests enough to ask questions, as long as you paid up front. I tended to the injuries with what medical supplies I had, but it was difficult to treat my own back, and the room was freezing despite the radiator. I tried to get warm and sleep, but it was mostly a fruitless attempt. I – wished for you so much, John. Every technique of compartmentalization I had, everything I had done in my Mind Palace to try and keep you, and us, safely locked away so that I was not distracted, so that I could work – it all just collapsed. It was a flood, in my head. Ultimately cathartic, I think, but incredibly painful. I missed you so terribly.”

Sherlock paused, and John could suddenly feel the tears dripping into his hair. On some level, John understood that Sherlock was sharing this with him as a gift, a way to know that his own suffering had not been one-sided, a gesture of absolute trust and intimacy. He was telling John exactly how the construct of his Mind Palace had been broken down, how he had been changed as a person.  John _had_ known that Sherlock had done and seen and felt terrible things during his time away, but hearing them in Sherlock’s own words was heartbreaking, as well as something of a relief. If he could tell John, if he could speak of these things at all, it meant that he could begin healing from whatever trauma still lingered.

John lifted his head and moved up the bed just enough that he could capture Sherlock’s lips. He kept the kiss soft, just intending to give comfort, but suddenly Sherlock was over him, kissing him desperately, aggressively, tears still lingering on his face. His large hands were everywhere, cradling John’s face, running down his arms, sliding up his rib cage and chest, while his lips traced down John’s jaw and over his collarbone. John was completely overwhelmed, everything he’d been carefully holding back rushing to the surface and making him gasp with the force of his own arousal.

“Please,” Sherlock murmured, his own longing shockingly clear and unadorned in his voice. “Please, John. I want you. I want everything. I want to know this is real.”

John clenched his hands in the sheets, trying to keep a grip on the last shreds of his rational thought. “You’re still injured,” he panted. “We should –”

“We’ll be careful,” Sherlock promised, his lips brushing over a nipple and causing John to gasp again and arch beneath him. “I promise, I will tell you the minute anything really hurts. Please, John.”

John swallowed. He’d sworn to himself that if he ever had a chance at this, he would take it with both hands, and here Sherlock was, offering all of himself and worshiping John with mouth and hands as though it was as necessary as breathing to him.

“Carefully, then,” John agreed, finding his voice, hoarse though it was. “You tell me the _moment_ something pains you too much, Sherlock.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock answered, and then John was lost in feeling again, as if he was part of the flood Sherlock had described, while Sherlock traced his tongue around John’s nipples, found that one oddly sensitive place on John’s right side, traced his fingernails up and over John’s pectorals, found the pulse point on John’s neck that sent arousal shivering down his body, and kissed him over and over again, so intensely and yet so tenderly that John found his eyes burning with unshed tears, even while he moaned and cried out.

“I love you,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth, his voice breaking over the words. “God, I love you.”

Sherlock smiled, still kissing John. “I love you.”

“Hang on,” John said, and he wriggled out of his pants, kicking them unceremoniously off the bed. Sherlock sat back on his heels and surveyed him, his eyes going from John’s head to his toes and back again. When he met John’s gaze (and John was blushing faintly, though he knew that Sherlock clearly approved of what he saw), there was something very like awe in his eyes.

“You are – indescribable, John Watson,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes shining, shaking his head in both fondness and perplexity. “Magnificent.” He lay back down, on his side, his uninjured forearm holding him up and one leg draped loosely over John’s two. “It will be easiest this way, for the moment.” He kissed John again, deeply, and at the same time ran the tips of his fingers over John’s erection, from base to tip. It was just light enough to be teasing, but with just enough pressure to be agonizing, and John moaned again, his eyes falling closed, as Sherlock swirled his fingertips through the liquid collecting at the head of John’s cock.

“God, Sherlock, _please_ ,” John pleaded, the muscles in his forearms standing out as he gripped the bed and at his pillow so that he wasn’t grabbing some part of Sherlock and inadvertently hurting him.

Sherlock wrapped his entire hand around John’s cock, and John cried out, his hips jerking at the sensation and the _sight_ of Sherlock stroking him. As he rocked helplessly into Sherlock’s fist, overtaken with the warmth and friction of it and the feel of Sherlock surrounding him, he realized that he was struggling to articulate words, still, endearments and commands all jumbling up together.

“Oh – _love_ – yes – like that, exactly like that – I love you – don’t stop –”

Sherlock was watching him avidly, his eyes drinking in every motion and reaction and twitch of muscle, and just when John felt himself reaching the brink of orgasm, Sherlock leaned into him, tracing his tongue around the shell of John’s ear before breathing, “So beautiful. My John.”

The deep tones of Sherlock’s voice, combined with the warm heat of his breath and tongue and the slick heat of his fist, sent John’s orgasm rushing through him, his vision going white as his whole body tensed and he spilled over Sherlock’s fingers. He had no idea whether he made any sound in those last few moments; when he was aware of the world again, Sherlock’s face was next to his, pressing kisses to his lips and nose and chin, and his fingers stroking through John’s hair.

“That was – amazing, Sherlock,” John said, when he found his voice again. “I don’t – I don’t have words for how it felt.”

John turned over, catching Sherlock’s mouth with his own, and he realized that Sherlock was trembling, emotion and arousal sending little shudders through his limbs even as he wrapped his arms around John and met his kisses.

With the new knowledge of Sherlock’s sexual history still fresh in his mind, John put everything he had into conveying his love for the mind and body underneath his hands. He worked his way down Sherlock’s torso, pressing gentle kisses to every scar and bruise, making Sherlock gasp and goosebumps ripple over his skin. John sucked at Sherlock’s nipples until they were hard and Sherlock moaned; he moved downward and mouthed at Sherlock’s hipbones, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s pubic hair and then continuing down, running his tongue along Sherlock’s inner thighs and into the sensitive spot on the inside of the knees, making Sherlock groan and writhe with arousal. The litany of sounds coming out of Sherlock’s mouth was glorious; it was beyond anything John could have imagined, to hear that beautiful voice breaking with desire, pleading wordlessly with John for _more_.

Sherlock twined his fingers in John’s hair and tugged, and John gladly moved back up the bed, pressing their mouths together again with abandon. Sherlock’s tongue stroked the length of John’s, still tenderly but more than a little desperate, and when they both stopped to breathe Sherlock leaned his forehead into John’s.

“Please, John. I want you so much. We’ll have time now; there will be more time. I promise.”

Without breaking their embrace, John managed to get a hand between them, and Sherlock threw his head back with a cry as John touched him. John could feel how tense he was, how close, and he did his best to keep a rhythm with his strokes, even as he kissed down Sherlock’s neck and swirled his tongue over the notches in Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock was panting, pushing into John’s fist, small desperate noises escaping him.

“Gorgeous,” John said hoarsely. “You are so gorgeous, Sherlock. I love you. Let go for me, love.” He twisted his wrist, adding just that much more friction, and that was all it took; Sherlock’s entire body arched, his mouth opening soundlessly as he came, pearly white streaks painting his abdomen. John found himself holding his breath as he watched; he was certain he had never seen anything so utterly captivating.

When Sherlock collapsed back to the bed, spent, John gathered him into his arms, putting his arms under Sherlock’s shoulders and resting on top of the detective, not caring in the slightest about the mess. He nuzzled his nose into Sherlock’s neck, ran his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, and kissed him, tactfully ignoring the tears he could see glittering in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes.

“All right?” he whispered.

“So much more than all right,” Sherlock answered, smiling, though his voice was thick. “Perfect. Incomparable.”

“‘Incomparable’ seems about right,” John agreed warmly, kissing Sherlock again. “I’ll be right back, love. I just want to get something to clean us up with.” He gave Sherlock’s shoulders a gentle squeeze in reassurance before sliding out of bed and retrieving a pair of warm flannels from the bathroom. He cleaned himself off as well as he could, then took the second flannel back to the bedroom and did the same for Sherlock, leaving both flannels in the bathroom sink before sliding back into bed. Sherlock immediately curled on top of John, putting an arm and a leg over him and pulling him close, and John got an arm under Sherlock’s neck so that he could run a hand up and down Sherlock’s back.

They were both asleep in moments.

* * *

Hours later, John woke fully alert, realizing that Sherlock was still on top of him, but clearly awake and as tightly wound as one of the strings on his violin. His face was tucked into John’s neck, and before John could ask what was wrong, he felt Sherlock press a finger against his lips.

“John,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, “there’s someone in the flat. When I get up, grab your gun as quietly as you can.”

John nodded to show he understood, his heart rate increasing even while he stayed completely still. The light from the window indicated that it was early afternoon now, so fortunately they could move about without turning on lights. Sherlock eased himself up, moving as silently as a cat, and pulled on his dressing gown. He slipped his hand into the nightstand drawer on his side of the bed, emerging with a Gen 4 Glock that John hadn’t seen before. John rolled over, also carefully, and found his own robe before retrieving his own Browning from his drawer; he’d put it there as a precaution ever since they had come home to Baker Street.

Sherlock crept to the door, still silent, and John realized how terrifying his partner was like this: intent, soundless, and very, very deadly. His hands were steady and sure on the gun, utterly different from that night at the pool with Moriarty. John thought, a trifle hysterically, that he couldn’t decide whether he was appalled or completely turned on by it, even while his heart twisted painfully as he realized what that change had cost Sherlock. In the meantime, his own combat-trained brain was covering Sherlock’s back as they slipped into the hall, checking for signs of more than one intruder.

Sherlock reached the doorway to kitchen first, taking in the living room beyond, and John felt the tension run out of him before he saw it, Sherlock’s shoulders and spine relaxing and the gun dropping to his side, even as he let out a soft “Oh” of surprise.

Coming up on Sherlock’s right, John stared as a regal woman rose from the armchair that was generally his, turning to face them. She had dark gray curls that came just past her chin, a full mouth, and eyes that were a vivid gray-green – they lacked the blue hues of Sherlock’s, but were clearly just as prone to color changes. She was absolutely lovely, despite – possibly because of – her age and the experience that rested on her face and in her keenly intelligent eyes. John’s eyebrows lifted as he realized that he was looking at Mrs. Holmes, at the woman who had somehow produced both Mycroft and Sherlock. She was also not a tall woman; Sherlock and Mycroft must have gotten their height from their father. John didn’t say anything, however, since Sherlock and his mother seemed temporarily frozen, staring at each other.

“Sherlock.”

“Mother.”

Sherlock let out a quiet sigh and ran a hand over his face. “That wasn’t a very wise idea, you know.”

“I realize you’ve been living a life that required you to shoot first and ask questions later, Sherlock, but I did hope you would recognize your own mother,” the woman answered, a half smile turning up her mouth in a way so identical to Sherlock that it sent John’s brain reeling for a moment.

“And what if I hadn’t?” Sherlock demanded, all imperiousness and exasperation once again. “I could have _shot_ you, Mummy.”

Mrs. Holmes nodded, accepting the possibility and apologizing all in one small motion, then stepped closer to her son. “I am very glad you didn’t. Hello, Dr. Watson,” she added, looking toward John.

Sherlock’s head whipped around to John, the detective having apparently forgotten about John’s presence for once in his life. “Forgive me, John. John Watson, Victoria Holmes,” he said, nodding first toward John and then toward his mother as he introduced them.

John found his voice and offered a hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“And I you, John,” she answered with a smile. “Please, call me Victoria. My apologies for barging in on the two of you like this, but I really did feel it was high time. Just when were you going to tell me that you were alive, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had the grace to look a little alarmed at this. “Didn’t Mycroft tell you? He was supposed to tell you, Mother,” he said anxiously.

“He did tell me, once you came home – and I know how much you wanted to get back to your doctor – but you left me thinking you were dead for a year. I thought I had lost you as well as your father,” Mrs. Holmes reproved him gently, her voice wavering just a fraction. “Of course I would want to see for myself that you were all right.” She reached out and folded her arms around her son, holding him tightly, and Sherlock accepted the embrace without any of his usual hesitation, fitting his tall frame around his mother even more easily than he did with Mrs. Hudson.

“I’m sorry, Mummy,” he murmured. “I really am all right. Mostly.” He pulled back from her just a little, looking her in the eyes. “I should have come to see you myself, before now. But for God’s sake, don’t break into the flat again without warning us first! We keep the guns near at hand for a reason.”

“I know. Point taken,” Victoria said. Her serious expression turned mischievous in the next moment, her eyes dancing. “It was such fun using my lock-picking skills again, though! I haven’t tried to beat you at it in ages.”

Sherlock fought to hold back his smile as his eyes narrowed, but John could see the mirth in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I absolutely would,” Victoria challenged, lifting her eyebrows. “Name the day.”

John couldn’t keep in his amusement any longer, and he collapsed into giggles. Both Sherlock and Victoria turned to him with curious expressions.

“I’m sorry,” John apologized, his shoulders shaking. “It’s just – you two are adorable. Victoria – you taught him how to pick locks?”

The curiosity on both Sherlock and Victoria’s faces turned to almost identical looks of affronted indignation, which only made John laugh harder.

“We take our lock-picking very seriously, I’ll have you know,” Victoria told him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. _I_ taught _Mother_ how to pick locks, when I was a teenager. We practiced by trying to beat each other on different kinds of locks, seeing who could get them open the fastest."

“Of course you did,” John chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry. My mistake. Would you like some tea, Victoria?”

“That would be lovely,” she replied, beaming at him.

John went into the kitchen as the hum of Sherlock and Victoria’s voices resumed behind him, putting the kettle on and pulling cups from the cupboard. Sherlock slipped into the room as the kettle began to boil, putting his arms around John from behind. John turned the kettle off and leaned back against him.

“Sherlock, your mother is . . . amazing. Much like her son,” John said, turning his face toward Sherlock’s with a smile.

“She is,” Sherlock agreed, a softer smile flitting across his features. “I’ve no idea how she contended with both Mycroft and myself, but somehow she did. She is amazingly intelligent, herself, and was always devising puzzles for us, teaching us, giving us new books, trying to keep us entertained and interested.”

Sherlock paused. “Father died when I was fourteen,” he said quietly. “Mycroft was already working his way up the governmental ladder, and I know he helped her with some of the legal matters and the funeral service, but I was – numb. I would stay with her, read with her, show up for meals, but I couldn’t _speak_. Willoughby was the only one who could manage to get a sentence or two out of me, perhaps because he reminded me of Father. He was the one who bought me a book on lock-picking, and when Mother saw me reading it, she got me a set of lock picks. I started working on every lock in the house. She came to watch me and observe how I did it, and one day I offered to teach her. It was the first thing I’d managed to say to her. She cried – but then she made me show her how,” Sherlock finished with a shaky laugh.

John turned around in Sherlock’s arms and kissed him deeply. “I am _so_ glad that both your mother and Willoughby were there for you,” he murmured. “Just as I’m glad that Mycroft was there, and Greg was there for you later, and Mrs. Hudson. You have a world of people who care about you, Sherlock.”

“Evidently,” Sherlock said, kissing John in return and smiling a bit self-deprecatingly. “I’m not quite sure how that happened.”

John laughed and kissed him again. “Come on. The tea will be cold.”

They returned to the living room with the tea tray, and Victoria looked up from her phone, where she had apparently been returning a text message.

“Oh, thank you so much, my darlings,” she said, smiling as John handed her a cup of tea. “Sherlock, what is being done about the papers?”

“Mycroft is supposed to be handling it, Mother; in fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t called yet,” Sherlock answered. “But I would imagine it will involve a press conference of some kind, probably with Lestrade and some other government officials who are very much _not_ Mycroft. Heaven forbid he be seen in public and at something as plebian as a press conference,” Sherlock said sardonically. “But the difficult part has been done, really; they’ve already cleared me of any wrongdoing. Now they just have to welcome me back to the land of the living,” he finished.

“Now, Sherlock, you know you hate the press as much as your brother,” Mrs. Holmes chided him. “And he has plenty of good reasons to want to keep his name and face out of the papers.”

“Ah, but what kind of a brother would I be if I admitted that?” Sherlock returned, just as his mobile rang. He picked it up from the table, answering without so much as a glance at the screen. “Brother dear. Are you done planning this torturous press conference that you won’t be attending?”

Sherlock listened for a moment, then gave a long-suffering sigh. “I am _aware_ that you can’t be there, Mycroft. Don’t state the obvious; it’s tiresome. Lestrade and John will be there, along with the minions you will send. I will be fine.”

Victoria reached over and calmly plucked the mobile out of her son’s hand, to Sherlock’s open-mouthed disbelief. “Don’t worry, Mycroft dear. I will be there as well.”

This produced something approaching an actual squawk through the mobile, which immediately had John bent double in a silent fit of laughter.

“Nonsense, darling,” Victoria soothed her elder son. “No one knows who I am and there’s no reason they should, but I will be another pair of eyes in the crowd. I would like to see Sherlock get the credit he is due, for once. The _least_ Scotland Yard and the government can do is apologize while he’s standing in front of them.”

There was another string of syllables that sounded like indignation, and even Sherlock cracked a smile at that, while John had tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh, honestly, Mycroft,” Victoria scolded. “The two of you have just accomplished something enormous, together, and Sherlock can take the public credit for it and get his standing back in the eyes of the public at the same time. Don’t be petty. We’ll be there tomorrow.” And she hung up the phone with a decisive press of her finger.

John caved, then, laughing until he couldn’t breathe and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Oh, that was priceless. Whenever I need to do an end-run around Mycroft, Victoria, I’m calling you. I’d no idea you were the one person he would actually listen to.”

Victoria smiled at him, a bit wicked and gleeful. “I generally try to stay out of the lives of both my boys,” she said, her tone deceptively demure, “but every now and then they each need a bit of a telling off. Mycroft does get on his high horse sometimes, and Sherlock can be stubborn beyond all reason. I’ve had years of practice.”

“Yes, thank you, Mummy,” Sherlock said, clearly somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed by his mother’s comments. “What is it, exactly, that Mycroft has planned?”

Victoria's eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she leaned forward. "Ah, yes. Here's what's going to happen..."

* * *

John wound his way through the tables at The Beehive Pub, looking for Greg’s familiar head of silver hair. John was glad he and Greg had decided to meet for drinks, tonight; it would be good to go over what was going to happen at the press conference with someone else. Victoria had been very thorough in explaining, and John knew everything should go smoothly, but years of living with Sherlock and then thinking him dead had taught John to prepare for the worst and most unlikely of possibilities.

John finally caught sight of Greg sitting at a back corner table, and raised his hand as he worked his way over. Greg slid a pint across the table toward him and grinned a greeting.

“Thanks, mate,” John nodded, returning the grin as he took a swig of the lager. “Appreciate it.”

“Well, I figured a celebratory drink was in order,” Greg said warmly. “Sherlock’s back, bless him, and there’s no better reason in the world to have a toast.”

The two men lifted their glasses and drank together, and Greg studied John for a minute or two, which made John’s cheeks redden in spite of himself.

“You look good, John. Happy. Content. Not that I didn’t know how you felt about him, after,” Greg said gently, “but I’d know it now, if I didn’t then.”

John nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “He came _back_ , Greg,” he said, his voice so quiet that Greg had to lean in to hear him over the noise of the pub. “I pleaded with him not to be dead, and he isn’t. How many people get that kind of miracle? I swore that if I ever saw him again, if I could do it all over again, I would tell him everything. Give him everything. Not be the idiot he so often accused me of being.”

Greg snorted. “He never thought you were an idiot, mate, no matter how many times he said it. I knew it that first day. Do you know how many times he had brought someone to one of my crime scenes, before you? Exactly none. He was fascinated by you, for reasons that are still somewhat beyond me – even if you did shoot that crazy cabbie.”

“Shhh!” John hissed, unable to completely quell his laughter, his eyes wide with surprise. “You aren’t supposed to know about that.”

“Well, I’m not an idiot either, despite all of Sherlock’s protests to the contrary,” Greg retorted. “Why do you think he keeps me around?”

“Saving his life might have something to do with it,” John said, suddenly solemn again. “That was part of the reason I wanted to come tonight, actually. He told me about that, how you saved him and then helped him stay clean. I can’t thank you enough for that, Greg. I never would have met him, if not for you.”

Greg shook his head, a small smile turning up his mouth. “You don’t have to thank me for that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you two found each other, because I’ve never seen anything like the way he’s changed since he met you. But he’s my family, too. Like he said yesterday, it’s what we do.”

John smiled in return, picking up his glass again. “To family, then.”

“To family,” Greg agreed, tipping his pint against John’s and taking another drink.

“So everything is all set for tomorrow?” John asked, after they had sat in silence for a minute or two. “I don’t mind telling you that I’m nervous as all hell, Greg. This is the first public thing he’s done since he’s been back, and if by some chance he’s overlooked some crazy Moriarty disciple –”

Greg’s sharp nod was decisive, his face sober and reassuring. “It will be fine, John. I will be there, Mackenzie will be there, and you know Mycroft’s promised a small army of his people will be guarding the perimeter of the room. This is part of why we’re doing it at Scotland Yard, too. We’ll be in the building, with all of its security, and the press crowd is going to be very small. There was no way we were going to allow this to be a public event, not with the potential risk and with government representatives present.”

John breathed out. “Okay. That’s good. Victoria told us all this after talking with Mycroft, but it’s good to hear it from you.”

“Victoria?” Greg questioned, arching a brow. “You met Sherlock’s mum?”

“Yeah, she came by the flat today,” John said, shaking his head. “Nearly scared the life out of us, actually, since she picked the lock to get in. She’s – wow. She’s so much like Sherlock, and so different at the same time.”

Greg hooted with laughter. “Of course she picked the lock. Why am I not surprised? She’s a knockout, too; no need to wonder where Sherlock got that from,” Greg said with a grin. “But you’re right. I only met her the once, at the hospital with Sherlock, but she’s an amazing woman.”

“She’s going to be there tomorrow; you’ll probably get the chance to speak with her if you like,” John informed him.

“That’d be nice,” Greg said reflectively. “It’s been a long time.”

“Is Molly okay?” John questioned. “I know she said to leave her alone, and we will, but I wanted to make sure she was all right. Neither of us expected her to react quite like that.”

“She didn’t either, to tell you the truth,” Greg admitted. “It’s a lot to take in, and I think she’d been trying to hold herself together about Sherlock for so long that everything came flooding out once she knew he was okay. But she’ll be all right, with a little time.”

“I’m really happy for the two of you, Greg,” John said sincerely. “I know how long you’ve cared about Molly, and it’s wonderful that you’re together.”

Greg was startled. “What do you mean, you know how long?”

“Oh, come on,” John said teasingly, nudging Greg’s forearm with his own. “You think I didn’t see how you looked at her, at that disaster of a Christmas party? Molly came in the door in that dress and you couldn’t take your eyes off of her.”

It was Greg’s turn to blush a bit, sipping at his pint to cover it. “I . . . didn’t realize it was that obvious, I guess. I was still sorting things with the ex-wife, and it seemed like terrible timing all around, but . . . yeah. I always wanted to ask Molls out, after that; it just took me a while to feel like I _could._ Like I had my life together and could offer her something.”

“You two are good together. Enjoy it; God knows you’ve earned some happiness, Greg.”

“You, too, John. You, too.”

* * *

“In conclusion, we would like make it absolutely clear that Mr. Holmes’ public disgrace a year ago was entirely falsified and orchestrated by the deceased James Moriarty, and that Mr. Holmes has been of invaluable assistance to the British Intelligence community during his time away,” said Mycroft’s minion, whose name John had already forgotten at this point in the press conference.

He wanted so much for this to be over.

It was a small room, and a very small number of people present, not more than thirty. There were armed guards at every exit, and everyone had been thoroughly screened before they were allowed to enter, along with all of their equipment.

Sherlock, Greg, and Mackenzie occupied the platform at the front of the room, along with Mycroft’s representative and John himself. Victoria was in the audience, doing an admirable job of pretending to take notes while watching every flicker of movement. John wouldn’t put it past her to have a weapon somewhere on her person; he was certain Mycroft would never interfere with his mother’s precautions, whatever they might be. If there was any kind of threat, John was certain that Victoria would spot it, perhaps before he himself did. If for some reason either of them missed any danger signals, John knew that Anthea would spot them; she was almost invisible in the back of the room, but John saw her and was immensely comforted by her presence.

Greg had started the ball rolling by giving an account of The Fall and all of the proof that had been gathered against Moriarty, as well as all of the work that the Yard (Anderson, really, though Greg couldn’t say it) had done to review Sherlock’s cases and prove his legitimacy as a brilliant consulting detective. The SIS man had then taken over, spinning the tale that Sherlock had been deliberately brought into Intelligence after his “death” and used as an asset.

Sherlock was going to speak, and then the questions would start, and John was dreading it. He hoped Greg could keep a handle on how many questions were asked and how personal they got. The one saving grace was that Mycroft had not allowed any of the tabloids credentials for the room; only about ten major broadsheet papers from England, Scotland, and Northern Ireland were allowed in, along with the BBC and ITV television channels and the wire services.

Mr. MI6 had finished deflecting questions about what Sherlock had been doing during his time away, giving suitably vague but impressive answers, and Greg then introduced Sherlock. The detective was, outwardly at least, remarkably composed, and John’s heart swelled as he looked at Sherlock, knowing how cross and distracted and nervous he had been as they had gotten ready to come to the Yard. None of it was showing now, and it made John incredibly proud to know that he was loved and allowed in, somehow, by this astonishing man who hid so much of himself from the world.

“I would just like to say a few words, and then I will take questions,” Sherlock started. “I am thankful for the support of MI5 and MI6, and of course the support of the Yard and Detective Inspector Lestrade, who has been my longtime colleague and friend.” Sherlock paused, looking toward John for a fraction of a moment and giving him the tiniest of smiles. “I would also like to thank Philip Anderson, who was instrumental in proving my innocence, honesty, and professionalism when it came to my consulting for New Scotland Yard. Without him, it would have taken much longer to clear my name here at home. Finally, I would just like to say that I am very grateful to be home, and grateful to my family and friends for welcoming me back with open arms. It has been a very long year.”

“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!”

Hands went up thick and fast, and Greg, doing his best to control the chaos, called on a woman in the front row.

“Mr. Holmes, will you be resuming your consulting here in London?”

“I plan to be available to private clients within about a week, yes, and hopefully to resume work with the Yard in the near future.”

That brought an almost immediate follow-up directed toward Greg. “Detective Inspector, is there any question about Mr. Holmes returning to work with you at Scotland Yard?”

“None at all,” Greg responded promptly. “It’ll take us a little bit to get his paperwork through, though; bringing the dead back to life isn’t easy work.”

That brought a laugh from the room, making John sigh internally in relief, and Greg called next on an older man in the second row.

“Dr. Watson, if I may,” he said, and John straightened up, unconsciously aligning his body into military posture. “We’ve all noticed you’re here, and yet you haven’t said anything at all. Did you know Mr. Holmes was alive during this past year?”

“No, I didn’t, though I’m very happy to be proven wrong,” John answered, smiling at Sherlock.

The reporter looked like he might ask something else, but John was not eager to answer more questions, and thankfully, Greg saw it and called on a young woman before the older reporter could speak again. The young lady was sitting a few seats down from Victoria.

“Mr. Holmes, will you resume your residence at the iconic 221B Baker Street?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, amused. “Iconic, is it?  Our landlady will be pleased to know it has gained so much value.”

Amid chuckles from the reporters, Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I’ve no desire to be anywhere else.”

“And will Dr. Watson be returning with you?”

Sherlock looked at John, and John cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Already done.”

It was the most either of them would say for now, John knew, and as it was a murmur went through the room. The speculation was going to be rampant, but John found that he really didn’t care. For one, the speculation was basically true, now, and for another, neither he nor Sherlock were the type to parade their relationship in front of everyone.

There were several more questions, and then Greg broke up the press conference, directing everyone out the doors at the back. Anthea, John noticed, stood with the guards at the door, watching each person as they left. John gravitated toward Sherlock when he stood up, and the two of them went to join Victoria down in the seats.

“Well, I’m glad that was relatively uneventful,” John sighed.

 “As am I, my dear,” Victoria nodded. “Mycroft did his work well.”

“Which I will definitely _not_ be telling him,” Sherlock said archly, earning a glare from his mother that he returned with a smirk.

Greg and Mackenzie joined them, then, having seen the crowd of reporters out of the room and dismissed those guards who were from the Yard.

“I hate press conferences,” Greg groaned. “Reporters are bloody vultures, the lot of them.”

“You handled them very professionally, Detective Inspector,” Victoria said, smiling at him, and Greg started in surprise at seeing her.

“Mrs. Holmes – Victoria,” he corrected himself. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Very nice to see you, Greg,” Victoria answered. “And who is your companion?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Greg apologized, turning to McKenzie. “Sergeant Audra McKenzie, this is Victoria Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson,” he said, nodding to each of them in turn.

“I would imagine you’re quite aware of who we are already,” Sherlock said with a smile as he held out a hand.

McKenzie laughed. “Quite aware, yes, but it’s a pleasure to meet you all,” she said, returning the handshake and then shaking John and Victoria’s hands in turn.

“Detective Inspector, might I have a word?” Victoria requested, once again taking Greg by surprise.

“Of course,” he said, and Victoria drew him away to the side of the room, leaving Sherlock and John with Sergeant McKenzie.

“Thank you for looking out for him, making sure he was safe,” Sherlock said swiftly, once Greg was out of earshot.

McKenzie smiled. “It’s my job, among other things, Mr. Holmes. I was glad to do it. He’s a good detective and a good man, and he didn’t deserve to be dragged through the mud the way he was.”

Sherlock looked slightly stricken, though he covered it well, but John saw it and laid a hand on his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault,” John reminded him firmly, his voice low, and McKenzie looked startled.

“Not at all,” she agreed. “You saved him, Mr. Holmes. I was just your rear guard.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.”

Over against the wall, Victoria was giving Greg her own thanks.

“I’ve never had a chance to thank you for all you’ve done for Sherlock,” she said quietly. “After the hospital, that last time – you gave him something to keep himself occupied, something to work for. You watched him when Mycroft and I couldn’t. I stay out of public life for the most part, Greg, for a lot of reasons, but I wanted to thank you in person.”

“It’s nice to see you when we’re not both out of our heads with worry about him,” Greg said with a smile. “And I’ll tell you what I told John yesterday: you don’t have to thank me.  It’s what family does, and Sherlock is family to me. Ever since he showed up at my crime scene that first time, God help me.”

Victoria laughed. “Welcome to the family, then.”

As Greg and Victoria rejoined them, John said, “It was kind of you to mention Anderson up there. Do you think it will do any good?”

“I don’t know, but I thought he deserved the acknowledgement, and Lestrade couldn’t say anything without being dragged in front of his superiors,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’m going to be dragged in front of them anyway for not ‘keeping you under control,’ Greg retorted. “Serves them right, though. I don’t know that they’ll give Anderson his job back, but at least now he gets the credit for clearing you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Victoria said. “Perhaps Mycroft can arrange something.”

John felt Sherlock’s hand slide into his, and he squeezed it gently. “Ready to go home?” he asked, looking up into Sherlock’s face. He could see that Sherlock was tired; he was still healing, and these sorts of public, formal interactions exhausted him when they weren’t part of a case.

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, by all means, John. Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only an epilogue left! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Wounded with His Wounded Heart" by HarmonyLover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437580) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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